Send In the Clowns
by signpost
Summary: Clowns are frightening; it's a simple fact. So what do you do if the clowns are actually after you, and the only one who can help you is Dutchy... and he's got big problems already? [slash]
1. one

Dutchy slammed into the large dormitory at the Lodging House, and threw himself down on his bed angrily. He knew that he should probably be selling papers right now, that he should _definitely_ be selling papers right now, since he was flat broke, but he was just utterly fed up. If he went out to sell papers right now, he'd probably end up begging passersby to buy, and he was determined to keep his pride, if nothing else.

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. Today had started out well, but then Specs had intruded into his selling spot and refused to leave. Normally, Dutchy and Specs got on all right, but today, Specs had been in a foul mood. After about ten minutes of trying to outshout Specs (and failing), Dutchy had admitted defeat. He trudged off to find another selling spot, hopefully one where he wouldn't be encroaching on another newsie.

No matter where he went, though, there was already someone selling there. If it wasn't Boots, it was Snoddy, and if it wasn't Crutchy, it was Blink and Mush, who constantly sold together. After close to an hour of wandering south aimlessly, trying to find an empty street corner, Dutchy had wound up at the harbor, with ferries from Ellis Island coming and going in the distance. Finally, here was a space with no newsies.

Already exhausted, he had tried to sell, but no one passing by had seemed interested. And then he had been robbed. Remembering, his fists clenched. He had been dragged into an alley by two hurly sailors who could easily have snapped him in two with a flick of the wrist. So he'd stood still, anger burning in two bright circles high on his cheekbones, as they searched his clothes and managed to find the four dollars he'd hidden in his shoes. Before he'd had a chance to do anything, they'd dashed off through the alley, his precious four dollars clutched tightly in the bigger one's hand. There had been nothing for Dutchy to do but straighten his clothes, put his shoes back on, and head back towards the Lodging House.

So he lay in his bunk, exhausted, feet hurting, totally broke, and hating the entire world. Hating Specs, hating Crutchy, and Snoddy, and Boots, and Mush and Blink, and Pie Eater, and everyone, up through and including the Cowboy. He knew deep down that none of them were really at fault (with the possible exception of Specs), but hating them all felt so good that he stared at the bunk above his and hated with all of his heart.

His life hadn't been supposed to end up like this. Once he'd had a family, had a name... Kristoff. In 1882, when he'd been no more than a baby, his parents had left West Prussia and had come here, to New York, so their children could have a better life. As he'd grown into a toddler, and then a child, his parents continued to work. Eventually, they'd made enough to buy a small cloth store and the small apartment above it. Everyone had continued to work hard, from his father, down to his littlest sister, who was still barely toddling by the time Kristoff was six.

And then everything had gone wrong. He'd taken an afternoon to go play with some of the Irish boys down the block, and when he returned, it was ablaze. All of it. The store, the apartment, his family. Kristoff had stood there, in front of the scorching inferno, and stared blankly, until one of the firemen squatted down next to him and gently told him that they were all dead. His father, his mother, his oldest brother Zalek, and his two little sisters, Olenka and Delja. Everything he ever had, everything he had ever been was suddenly gone, consigned to flames.

Kristoff had looked at the ground, trying to fight back his tears, when he slowly became aware that the fireman was telling him that he was going to have to go to an orphanage. He'd been only a child, but he knew that going to an orphanage was tantamount to going to prison, and so he'd run. He'd squirmed out of the fireman's grip and dashed down the block as fast as his short legs would take him. Managing to lose himself in a crowd, Kristoff had heard the fireman calling for him, telling him to come back, that everything would be all right. Not for a moment, though, did he consider answering.

It was only later that evening that he'd sat on a stoop, sunburned, tears still running down his face, and realized that he had nowhere to go. He had no more family that he knew of, no friends he could go to. All alone, the little boy had pulled his knees towards his chest and started sobbing quietly. The sun slowly set in front of him, and he'd clutched his stomach, feeling the first pangs of hunger.

Then he'd heard a voice, a kind voice, asking him if he needed help. He looked up into the kind, weathered face of what looked like the oldest man he'd ever seen. Hoping that this grown up could do something, anything, he'd answered that he was all alone. Though at first the elderly man had thought that he was merely lost, he eventually managed to pry from the stubborn little boy the knowledge that his family was dead and that he had run away so he wouldn't have to go to an orphanage.

That was how he'd met Kloppman, to whom he still felt grateful every single day. Kloppman had dried his tears, had taken him to the Lodging House, and had put him out on the streetcorner the next day with a bundle of papers. The newsies had seen his blindingly blond hair and given him a name based on the only country they knew of that bred so many blonds, no matter that Kristoff wasn't Dutch. He'd been too worn out to correct them, so Kristoff had died and Dutchy was born in his place.

Now, eleven years later, Dutchy was still sleeping in the same bed. The world had gotten smaller as he'd gotten taller, and had gotten sharper when Kloppman had found him his first pair of glasses somewhere (he'd never asked where), but his view had not changed at all. Every night, he gazed up at the same wooden patterns on the base of the bunk above him, every morning he woke with the same mix of anticipation and despair of what the day would bring.

Days like today, however, made him wonder why he even bothered getting out of bed in the first place. He groaned loudly, punching the lumpy pillow with his fist. Those four dollars hadn't been much, but they'd been all he had. Now he was left with nothing but his clothes, his hat, and his glasses.

There was a rustling from the bunk above him. "Hello?" a sleepy, yet nervous-sounding voice said. "Who's there?"

Dutchy lay stiffly and silently, wishing he hadn't made any noise, not wanting anyone else to see him so out of sorts. The boy in the bunk above him, however, hadn't forgotten that he had indeed heard a despairing groan.

As Dutchy crossed his arms and wished that he didn't exist, a tousled head popped over the edge of the bunk and looked down on him. "Dutchy? That you?"

"Yeah," Dutchy answered grudgingly, recognizing that dark, shiny head of hair, even upside down, even without his glasses. "Hey, Bumlets."

Bumlets sighed, and it sounded curiously like relief. "What's wrong?"

Dutchy put his glasses back on and Bumlet's tan face came into focus, gazing at him curiously. "Nothin's wrong," he replied woodenly. "I'se just tired."

"Right..."

Before Dutchy could process that Bumlets had said that as though he didn't believe him at all, Bumlets had pulled his head back, and lay silently on top of the bunk.

For several minutes, both lay silently. Ultimately, Dutchy, feeling the discomfort keenly, sighed and said, "Bumlets? You awake?"

"...Yeah?"

"Look, I jus' had a really long day. That's all. Didn't mean to..."

This time, Bumlets lithely swung his body from his bunk and landed lightly on his feet on the ground next to Dutchy's bed. "What's botherin' ya?" he asked again.

"It's a long story," Dutchy replied, sitting up tiredly and raking his blond hair back from his forehead.

"I think I got the time," Bumlets replied, sitting down on the next bunk over.

"Oh, yeah?" Dutchy leaned against the headboard. "Why ain't you out sellin' papes?"

"It's a long story," Bumlets mocked with a strange grin on his face.

Despite himself, Dutchy grinned. The dark-haired newsie had always had a talent for making others smile, no matter how vile their mood. Dutchy didn't know Bumlets very well – Bumlets was insanely shy, and Dutchy was usually too involved in his own issues to try to draw him out – but on those rare occasions when they'd spoken, Dutchy had always ended up feeling better than he had started out feeling. "You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine," he said. "Deal?"

"Deal," Bumlets said obligingly. He reached into his belt and pulled out his stick. Dutchy didn't know the significance of the stick, but he'd never seen Bumlets without it. "Didja hear that the circus was in town this weekend?" Bumlets asked suddenly.

"The circus?" Dutchy repeated, confused. "No, but I believe you..."

"My whole family was in the circus," the dark-haired newsie explained with a rueful grin on his face. "We was a family of acrobats. "'The Flyin' Fretelli Family,' we was called, even though our last name was Cortez."

"Why'd they call ya the Fretelli Family, then?"

Bumlets shrugged. "'Cause nothin' sounds good with Cortez, I guess. Anyhow, we was famous. My pop, my ma, my older brothers and sisters, and me. They called me 'Baby Fretelli,' 'cause I was the youngest."

"'Baby Fretelli?" Dutchy repeated, his lips twitching slightly.

"You tell anyone and I'll soak ya," Bumlets threatened, but his tone was teasing. "We traveled from place to place with the circus, far back as I can 'member. I never had a real home, and I don't even know where my family came from."

"That's rough," Dutchy said.

"It wasn't too bad. We'd go out every night, do our act, and have the rest of the time free. The circus took care of us and paid us all pretty well. I saw lots of places, all over this country." A faraway gleam entered Bumlet's dark eyes. "I seen mountains and beaches, forests and deserts. I never thought that anything could be so pretty, but I seen it all."

"So what happened?" Dutchy asked simply. "How'd ya end up _here_?"

Bumlets smiled embarrassedly. "Well, it was our first time in New York, right? We'd never seen it before, or anythin' like it. I went out alone to look 'round on the last night, and I got lost. The city was so big, and the buildings were so tall, and everythin' looked the same. No one I asked knew that the circus was in town, so I jus' kept wanderin' around, lookin' for the way back. Well, the next mornin', I did find my way, but the circus was gone."

"What d'you mean, gone?" Dutchy asked. "How could it be gone?"

"Same way that it's gone from every city. Time was up, and they packed up the elephants and left."

"Your family?" Dutchy responded, feeling slightly horrified. "Did they jus' leave you too?"

Bumlets looked down, his smile fading somewhat. "Well, I wouldn't say that they jus' left me. I bet they looked, but the owner of the circus was a real stickler for schedules. So, 'less they wanted to lose their jobs with no promise that they'd find me anyway, they didn't have no choice."

"I'se sorry," Dutchy said sincerely. "That's some bum luck."

Bumlets looked back up at Dutchy, his quirky smile returning. "It's all right, Dutchy. I liked it here, yeah? Also, none of you newsies ever made me climb a fifty-foot platform an' jump off. I...don't got no likin' for heights."

"So you'se really okay with bein' here?" Dutchy asked. "You don't...want nothin' else or wish for it?"

"I'se okay with bein' here," Bumlets replied quietly, "but I still go to see every circus that comes to town. Jus' in case, right?"

"What would ya do? If ya found 'em, I mean."

Bumlets tilted his head back and looked up at the old, stained ceiling. "I got no idea. I don't want to go back to the circus, but I'd like to let 'em know that I'se alive... and I'd like to know that they worried about me."

"That's fair," Dutchy said. He waited for a moment, but when Bumlets didn't seem about to say anything else, he ventured, "Uh, can I...ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Is that why you ain't sellin' today? 'Cause you went to the circus, and they wasn't there?"

"Yeah. That's it."

"Oh. Can I ask another question?"

"Go ahead."

"The stick."

Bumlets looked down at the wooden rod he was carrying. "What, this?"

"Yeah. You always got it with you, so I was wonderin', well, what's the deal?"

"Ain't nothing special," Bumlets replied. "I found it in the street one day a while back, an' it reminded me of how guy who swallowed swords used to pretend to fence with me." He stood up and did a demonstrative lunge and a couple of swings, though his movements were confined in the cramped room, so he shrugged and sat down again. "I always enjoyed the fencing, so I kept the stick... Almost feels like a sword."

"Wish I had something like that to protect _me_." His foul mood abruptly returning, Dutchy flopped back on the mattress. "Could've done me some real good."

Bumlets crossed his arms and looked at Dutchy. "Right. Well, that's my story Your turn."

Dutchy glared at the ceiling. "Um, I lost my selling spot, I walked all over Manhattan, and I got robbed. That's about it."

Bumlets winced in sympathy. "Ouch. Sorry, Dutchy. How much did they get off ya?"

"Four dollars," Dutchy said with emphasis, happy to have an understanding ear. "Everythin' I got."

"If..." Bumlets replied tentatively, "...if you really need it, I could lend you a dollar or two... I been savin' up money."

Dutchy's head snapped to the side to stare at Bumlets in surprise. "Are you _serious_?"

"I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it," Bumlets said, almost shyly. "If you ain't got nothin', I could spare it."

"You'se _crazy_!" Dutchy exclaimed. "I mean, lendin' your best friend a nickel, I can understand, but lendin' _me_ a dollar or two? You—" he broke off, sputtering.

Bumlets shrugged, looking down sheepishly. "I trust ya, Dutchy. I know you'd pay me back soon as ya could."

"Trust me?" Dutchy stammered. "You don't even _know_ me."

"I know you well enough," Bumlets stated. "I'se always at Tibby's with all the other newsies. People jus' don't always notice me, 'cause I'se quiet."

"I ain't takin' your money!" was Dutchy's firm response.

"Um, if you insist," Bumlets said. He looked out of the small window, where the setting sun bathed Manhattan in an orange glow. "Well, if you won't take my money, will you at least let me buy you dinner?"

"Why're you bein' so nice?" Dutchy asked. "Not that you ain't a nice guy, Bumlets, but you don't owe me anythin'. I ain't done nothin' to deserve it."

"Why d'you think that a guy can't do somethin' nice for someone else if the someone else ain't done nothin'? I prefers to think that it's nice to take a friend out to dinner if he's had a bad day."

Dutchy stood up and put his hat on. "Well, I do think you'se crazy, but if you'se really determined to buy me a free dinner, I ain't about to complain more than once."

Bumlets shrugged and stood up too. "And when we get there, will you answer a question or two for me?"

Eying Bumlets suspiciously, Dutchy said, "Maybe. Depends what they are."

Bumlets waved a hand dismissively. "Nothin' important."

"Fine. Well, what're we waitin' for, then? I'm hungry."

With a nod, Bumlets followed Dutchy down the stairs, rolling his eyes at Dutchy's pained mutterings about his poor abused feet and legs.

On the way out of the door, Dutchy automatically turned left – it was the way to Tibby's and it was the cheapest place around. Bumlets, however, laughed and tugged on Dutchy's sleeve.

"You'se goin' the wrong way," he said.

"Huh?"

"We ain't goin' to Tibby's," Bumlets said, having correctly guessed the cause of Dutchy's confusion. "I thought you might want to eat dinner away from the others."

"Huh?" Dutchy repeated.

"You'se had a rough day, right? Well, when you'se in a bad mood, you want to be alone. So goin' to Tibby's ain't the smartest thing to do. C'mon," he said, pulling at Dutchy's sleeve again, "where we'se going is back _that_ way."

"How'd you know?" asked Dutchy, allowing himself to be pulled along. "I mean, that I don't like to be 'round other people when I ain't feelin' good."

Bumlets' ears turned pink, but all he said was, "That was why you came back to the Lodging House, right? So you could be alone."

"Well, yeah," Dutchy admitted.

"I messed up that plan, huh?" Bumlets said, carefully avoiding Dutchy's gaze as they hurried along.

"A bit," Dutchy said, "but I don't really mind." As he spoke, he was surprised to find that he wasn't lying, that he actually didn't really mind. "It's kinda nice to have someone to listen."

Without warning, Bumlets suddenly gasped and with an unnecessarily tight grip, pulled Dutchy into an alleyway. As they flattened themselves against the nearest brick wall, Dutchy snuck a glance at Bumlets' face, and was surprised at how pale Bumlets' dark-skinned face could get.

_"What's wrong?"_ he mouthed at Bumlets, who merely lifted a warning finger to his mouth. Dutchy took the hint and kept as quiet as he could. A moment later, three men strolled by the alley, chatting casually, their voices too low to be overheard.

They didn't seem to notice the two boys holding themselves stiff and silent against the wall. Soon, they were gone. Bumlets, seeming to finally judge it safe for them to move, exhaled and relaxed against the wall.

Dutchy crossed his arms. "What was _that_ about?" he demanded.

"Keep your voice down!" Bumlets whispered. "They might still hear you!"

Accordingly lowering his voice, Dutchy whispered back, "Fine. Now, what's going on?!"

Bumlets looked over at Dutchy with an unreadable expression. "Let's get some dinner. I'll explain there, yeah?"

"You'd better," Dutchy grumbled, rubbing his sore arm.


	2. two

The rest of the walk was considerably strained and uncomfortable, with Bumlets glancing back over his shoulder every few seconds. When finally he opened the door to an unfamiliar restaurant, Dutchy had to breathe a sigh of relief, hoping that things would get a bit less uneasy.

Then he looked at the interior of the restaurant, and gasped. "Bumlets," he whispered, "we can't eat _here_!"

"Why not?" Bumlets whispered back. "I'se payin'."

"This place is too...nice for us," Dutchy responded, staring with an expression that almost amounted to horror at tables set with fine china and crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. "I couldn't afford to _stand_ in this place if I worked every day till I was thirty!"

"Well, you don't gotta, do you?" Bumlets said, smiling. "Like I said before, I'se payin'."

Dutchy blinked and shook his head, trying to work out what was going on. Something was not right, he was sure of that. "How much are you goin' to _spend_ on this dinner?"

"Don't matter."

"What's goin' on?" Dutchy asked once more, his voice quiet this time, an ominous possibility forming in the back of his mind. "Look, before I sit down and eat on _your_ money, you gotta tell me what's goin' on. You in some kind of trouble?"

Bumlets looked at Dutchy, his smile disappearing to be replaced by a quiet, grim look. "Yeah. You could say that. Let's sit down and I'll tell ya 'bout it."

"Ex_cuse_ me," the maitre 'd broke in on their conversation, looking exactly as though he smelled something disgusting. "Can I do something for you... _gentlemen_?"

"Yeah," Dutchy said, deciding that he might as well go along with this. "You can take us to a table and give us some menus."

"I believe that you two may have stumbled into the wrong restaurant," the snooty-looking man said. "This is a respectable dining establishment, not a...a... street vendor."

"I got fifty dollars in my pocket here," Bumlets replied, ignoring the look of astonishment Dutchy sent at him. "If my money ain't good enough for you, I can always go an' spend it somewhere else."

Though the maitre 'd continued to look down his lengthy nose at them, he did grudgingly show them to a small table, as tucked away and invisible from the street as he could possibly make it.

When he had placed the elegant menus in front of them and beat a hasty retreat, Dutchy leaned back and looked at Bumlets, who was making a show of examining the menu.

"So," Bumlets said, eyes still trained on the menu, "what're you going to get?"

In response, Dutchy asked, "Can you read?"

Bumlets' eyes flicked up briefly. "No, but I ain't about to let the hoity-toity types in restaurant know that, am I?"

Dutchy sighed and opened his menu, mouth involuntarily dropping open at the sight of the ludicrous prices. "Two dollars for a steak? A dollar and two bits for lobster? Bumlets, we definitely don't belong here."

"One last time, I ain't worried about the money. Just pick whatever you want."

"_Bumlets—_" Dutchy said, but broke off when they both noticed other patrons of the restaurant glancing at them out of the corners of their eyes with a look of utter disdain. Immediately, both boys buried themselves in their menus. "Jus' _look_ at these prices!" Dutchy exclaimed loudly. "Only two dollars for a steak? What do they make it out of, gristle? I think this restaurant ain't good enough for us. Bet they have rats in the kitchen."

Though Bumlets didn't look up from his menu, Dutchy could see that his eyes were sparkling merrily with the joke, and that he had a grin on his face. "Nah, I heard good things 'bout this place. They told me it was first-rate food at dirt-cheap prices." He glanced around at the other customers, shamelessly eavesdropping by now. "Though the company ain't the greatest."

"Well said." Dutchy looked down at the menu again. "Now, I know you'se used to steak, but let's go with the oysters this time. Me folks always told me to try new things."

"Oysters?" For a moment, Bumlets looked vaguely green.

"They'se the most expensive, so they gotta be at least decent, right?"

Both boys looked slyly at the eavesdroppers sitting nearby, and Bumlets smiled. "Oysters it is!" he said loudly. "If they ain't brought out still alive, though, I'se only payin' half price. They lose half their flavor if they'se dead."

They continued talking in that vein for several moments, extolling the virtues of several types of food (always brought up by literate Dutchy), until other patrons finally seemed to lose interest in the two dirty boys in the corner and returned to their own quiet conversations.

When the waiter came over and asked them what they would like to eat, Bumlets said, "Two steaks."

He grinned at Dutchy, who waited for their server to walk away before mock-moaning, "But what about my _oysters_?" Both boys chuckled, but Dutchy's smile disappeared quickly, and he said, "Now I think it's time to tell me what's goin' on."

Bumlets' eyes lost their luster. He sighed and said, "I'se in a bit of trouble, Dutchy. That was the real reason I stayed in the Lodging House today."

"So," Dutchy asked suspiciously, "what you told me 'bout your family and the circus..."

"Nah, that was all true. I did go to the circus yesterday. While I was there, I kinda ran into someone."

"Who?"

"Well, last time this circus was in town was 'bout a year ago, right? 'Course I went, and I made a bet with one of the clowns."

"What kind of bet?"

Bumlets ran his hand through his hair. "I was brought up in the circus, like I said before, so I knows when somethin' ain't right. D'you know the cannon that they use to shoot clowns into the air?"

"No...I ain't never been to the circus," Dutchy replied.

"It's a big cannon. The clown climbs in the front, an' they shoot him off into the air. He's supposed to do a flip, or somethin', and land on his feet on the other side of the tent. Anyway, I saw that they cut cannon's fuse too short. If it's that short, then the clown don't have enough time to prepare himself, and he gets shot off before he's ready. You follow?"

"I think so."

"So I made a bet with another clown that the one they shoot off wouldn't lend on his feet." Bumlets shrugged. "Seemed like it'd be a certain way to make some money. The clown lands on his rear, I get some money, no harm done, right?"

"Somethin' went wrong, though," Dutchy replied. "Didn't it?"

"Not really," Bumlets looked down at the glass of water the waiter set in front of him before hurrying away. "Actually, it all went accordin' to plan. The fuse burned, the clown went flyin', and he didn't land on his feet. So really, I won the bet."

"Did you get paid?"

"Okay, yeah, somethin' did kind of go wrong. See, the clown they shot out of the cannon was supposed to do a triple flip and land on a platform 'bout fifty feet up. Except that I didn't know that when I made the bet. So when he hit his head on the platform, fell fifty feet, and, well, _died_..."

"I heard 'bout that," Dutchy said quietly. "'Bout the clown who fell. It made all the newspapers."

Bumlets winced. "Yeah. It wasn't supposed to go like that. He was supposed to land on his bum and have a bruised ego, not break his neck."

"So you didn't get the money."

"Not just that, Dutchy," Bumlets confided dismally. "The clowns blamed me for it. They thought I'd sabotaged the cannon and killed their friend so I could win a few dollars."

Dutchy massaged the bridge of his nose. "How'd you get away from them?"

"Growin' up in a family of acrobats has its advantages."

"So," Dutchy said, the story starting to come together in his head, "you heard that a circus was in town, but you didn't know which one, 'cause you can't read. That right?"

"Yup."

"You went to see if your family was there, and instead..."

"I ran into the clowns, who remembered me."

"And they want you dead?"

"Exactly. So I ran... They trailed me back to Manhattan before I could lose 'em. They'se gonna find me, Dutchy. I don't got a prayer. So I figure that I'se gonna spend my money and have a little fun before they catch up to me again."

Dutchy stared at Bumlets in horror. "You think you'se gonna _die_?"

"Well, yeah. Look, maybe you think clowns is all laughs and smiles, but they ain't. They'se like the mob. They don't forget, they don't forgive, and now that they know they'se close, they ain't gonna leave till I'se dead."

"How can you _talk_ like that? What're you _doin'_ here?" Dutchy said in horror. "There's a bunch of bloodthirsty clowns lookin' for you and you'se about to eat _steak_? C'mon, we gotta get you out of here!"

He reached across the table and grabbed Bumlet's arm, leaping to his feet, trying to pull Bumlets with him. Bumlets, however, resisted with uncharacteristic firmness.

"I ain't runnin', Dutchy. Least, not till I'se eaten my steak."

Dutchy glanced around helplessly, then leaned in closer to speak confidentially. "I ain't gonna just sit here and let you die!"

"Listen, Dutchy, let's wait. Let's get our food and eat. Clowns ain't about to look for a poor kid in a joint like this. If it's gonna be my last meal, I wanna enjoy it." He looked up at Dutchy pleadingly. "Please, sit down?"

Dutchy bit his lip, wanting to pull Bumlets up, and to run, but Bumlets was staring straight at him with eyes that bespoke an iron will. After a moment, despite some serious misgivings, Dutchy sat down again, releasing Bumlet's wrist as an afterthought.

"I don't understand ya, Bumlets. You'se in trouble, and..." He shook his head. "And you'se takin' me out to dinner? Why _ain't_ you runnin'? Get out of Manhattan for a while? You could go to Brooklyn. I know that Spot ain't the friendliest, but he wouldn't leave you out in the cold. Or Long Island, even? Anyplace?"

"I can't do that," Bumlets replied flatly. "They saw me with papes. They know I'se a newsie... What if they went after the rest of you to find me?"

"They wouldn't do that!" Dutchy exclaimed. "They... They'se _clowns_."

"You still don't get it. Clowns ain't nice guys. They'se angry, they'se bitter, and they'se mean. Don't fool yourself, they got a serious vendetta against me, and they ain't about to let anythin' stop them, now that they'se so close."

"That why you was alone in the Lodging House this afternoon? You was gonna let them come and find you?"

"You'se guys are my friends. How could I forgive myself if anyone got hurt?"

Dutchy swallowed hard, looking at Bumlets' serene face. "You really don't care, do ya? You'se just gonna sit there, eat your steak, and let them kill you?"

"'Course I care, Dutchy." Bumlets looked at Dutchy oddly. "'Course I care," he whispered, looking sad for the first time. "But my folks brought me up religious, and I made my peace with God. I got almost no regrets."

"Oh, yeah?" Dutchy said roughly. "Yeah, well, you may've made your peace with God, but you _ain't_ made your peace with _me_. I ain't gonna let you die."

Bumlets blinked several times. "Oh, yeah? What're you gonna do 'bout it, Dutchy?" he asked sardonically. "Gonna take the bullet for me?"

"Don't know yet!" Dutchy snapped. "But I'll think of _somethin_'."

"Why're you so worried 'bout me?" Bumlets asked quietly. "You don't believe in helpin' people who ain't helped you, so why're you so worried?"

"I...I ain't!" Dutchy sputtered. "You'se a newsie, and newsies look out for each other, right? That's all."

Into that tense moment walked their waiter, carrying two plates, each with a large, dripping steak and fluffy mounds of whipped potatoes. They both muttered "thanks," and started eating hungrily, neither wanting to be the one to speak first.

Finally, Dutchy said around a mouthful of steak, "So you said that they ain't gonna leave till you'se dead, right? Well, what if you _was_ dead?"

Bumlets choked on his potatoes, and had to down several gulps of water and hack a few times before, with streaming eyes, he was able to gasp out, "_What_?"

Waving his fork around with emphasis as the idea began to take shape in his head, Dutchy said, "Well, you wouldn't _actually _be dead. They'd just _think_ you was."

"I don't understand..."

"If they thought you was dead," Dutchy explained impatiently, "then they'd leave. You wouldn't actually have to be dead, though."

Bumlets toyed with this fork, mulling this over. "An' how would we do this?" he asked eventually.

"'Member when Snyder came to the Lodging House lookin' for Jack, and we all told him that Jack had cheesed it a while before?"

"Yeah," Bumlets said slowly.

"Well, the clowns would do the same thing, right? They'd come lookin' for you, and we'd all pretend that you was dead and be all sad 'bout it."

Bumlet's face drooped again. "No good. Sayin' that Jack was gone was one thing, but tellin' the clowns that I'm dead is 'nother. They'd never believe it, and none of us is exactly _actors_."

"No..." Dutchy looked down at his half-eaten steak and drummed his knife against it. "What if," he said very quietly, "the rest of the boys thought you was dead too?"

"What?" Bumlets gasped. "Are you sayin'—"

"Yeah," Dutchy replied grimly. "You hide out somewhere, and I run into the Lodging House, sayin' that I saw you get knifed or shot, or somethin', and that you'se dead."

Bumlets winced. "I dunno. That doesn't seem right. I don't want the others to think I'se dead."

"Would you rather actually _be_ dead?"

"You may have a point. But..." he looked up, "...they still might not believe it. The clowns, I mean. They'se gonna want to see me get killed or see my body before they'se gonna believe it."

Dutchy threw his hands in the air. "Well, why don't we just actually kill ya and get it over with, huh? Look, I'se doin' the best I can here. I can get people to think you'se dead, but how am I supposed to actually fake your death?"

"This ain't gonna work, Dutchy," Bumlets said. "Thanks for tryin', but there's no way out."

"Well, of course it ain't gonna work if you ain't even willin' to _try_," Dutchy insisted.

"...Where would I hide? I'se gonna need a place to lie low for a while."

Dutchy sighed, relieved, though he tried not to show it. "So, you'll do it?"

"I don't... really want to die," Bumlets said. "If you think it's got a chance..." He shrugged.

"Good." Dutchy nodded firmly. "You done eatin'?"

"Yeah, but... let's not go just yet, all right?"

"All right." All the same, Dutchy signaled the waiter to bring them the check.

"So, like I was sayin' before," Bumlets said quietly, "where could I hide?"

"Brooklyn?"

Bumlets winced. "Bad idea. I ain't exactly tough, and the Brooklyn boys know it. I wouldn't survive a day over there. I kinda want to stay in Manhattan, if I can."

Brushing his shaggy hair back, Dutchy shrugged. "How about at Medda's? She'd do anythin' for all of us, and there's plenty of places to hide in the theater."

"You really think she'd let me?"

"If her options are that or seein' ya dead, I really think she would," Dutchy replied dryly.

"I guess you'se right," Bumlets said uncertainly. He threw a few dollars on the table and continued, "Ain't no point in puttin' it off, I s'pose. You'se gonna walk to Medda's with me, right?"

"Course," Dutchy said, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to not stare hungrily at the dollar bills on the table. He hadn't seen that many of them in his life; in fact, ever since his family had died, the number of dollar bills he'd seen could be counted on his fingers.

Seeing the direction of Dutchy's gaze, Bumlets laughed, but it was a strained laugh, unlike his normal, carefree chuckle. "Try not to drool, Dutchy, yeah? I already got clowns after my life, I don't need snooty waiters comin' after me 'cause I tried to pay with soggy bills."

"Sorry," Dutchy apologized with an embarrassed smile. "Yeah, let's get goin' to Medda's. It should be safe enough... It's right 'round the corner from here." He stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to put his arm around Bumlets' shoulders. Bumlets was sitting, staring off into space, looking like nothing so much as a little lost dog. "C'mon," Dutchy urged, his voice rougher than he'd meant it to be. "This's gonna work, Bumlets. I... _We_ ain't gonna let nothin' happen to you."

Bumlets glanced up at him with a funny little smile on his face. "Thanks for not laughin'."

"Laughin' at what?" Dutchy asked, confused.

"That clowns put out a hit on me."

"What's funny 'bout it?"

"...They'se _clowns._"

"Oh. Ohhhh," Dutchy said as realization dawned. "Yeah, I guess it is a bit—" He shook his head and broke off his words. "No time to laugh. C'mon, let's get ya to Medda's."


	3. three

Though Bumlet's tension was nearly palpable now, making Dutchy wonder how he'd managed to stay so calm before, the short walk to Medda's was uneventful. As always, strolling under the large billboard with Medda's image on it felt like coming home – a strange kind of home and a stranger kind of mother, to be sure, but it was someplace all the newsies knew that they were always welcome.

When they walked into the theater, Medda was onstage rehearsing a new song and dance routine. Rather than disturb her, Dutchy and Bumlets quietly sat down in the back row, always happy to see her perform, even if her hair was pinned back into a simple bun, rather than her customary ringlets, and her dress was white linen and sweat-soaked.

Listening to Medda sing of lost loves and trying again was nothing new to Dutchy; he nodded to the rhythm and drummed his fingers lightly against the seat in front of him. However, when that song ended, and her routine was over, she kept singing quietly to herself. At first, the words weren't clear, but her voice gradually swelled in volume until both boys could hear her easily.

Dutchy stared at the ground, his face twisted, his nails digging into his palms. What she was singing was no high-energy, kick-up-your-heels song. It was a lullaby, and he recognized it.

He remembered his mother standing over the bed he shared with his siblings, her hair the same shining color as his, and singing these same words. He remembered how she'd stumbled over the unfamiliar sounds of the English language, but she'd kept singing, determined to master the language of her new home. When she would inevitably laugh and sheepishly admit defeat, she would nonetheless keep humming the tune quietly, calmly, until the last of her children had drifted off to sleep. Kristoff's favorite part, in fact, had been the humming, knowing that it would hang in the air until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

"Dutchy? Bumlets? Is that you?"

He looked up. Medda had stopped singing and was now squinting in their direction, a hand held up to shield her face from the strong stage lights.

Dutchy cleared his throat. "Yeah, Medda, it's us."

She smiled up at them. "I knew it had to be you two! No two other boys in Manhattan have hair in quite the same colors as you. Come down here and say hello to your old friend Medda, boys! You don't need to sit way back there." They stood up and walked down the steps to where Medda was waiting with open arms to give them hugs and affectionate kisses on the cheeks. "I haven't seen either of you in... Well, it must be weeks by now! What's been keeping all you boys so busy?"

"Business has been pretty good lately," Bumlets said, "so we'se all been sellin' like crazy. Most of us ain't had the time to stick 'round after the performances to say hi."

"Well, I'm glad business is good, but forgive me for saying that I wish that it was a little less good, so my boys could stop by more." She laughed. "Anyhow, what can I do for you two?"

"We need some help, Medda," Dutchy said. "Bumlets is in trouble, and he needs a place to hide for a while."

"Of course you can stay," she exclaimed. "What's happened?"

Bumlets started to speak, but Dutchy cut him off. "Long story short, clowns wanna kill Bumlets, and I'se gonna need to convince everyone that he's dead."

To Medda's credit, she took it in stride. "Everyone? The other boys too?"

"Especially the other boys," Dutchy replied firmly. "We can't have anyone knowin' that he ain't dead."

"I understand," Medda said. She paused, deep in thought. "The best place to stay would be the green room."

"What's that?" Bumlets asked tensely.

"It's the room where I keep all my costumes and do my changing. I could bring you food twice a day, Bumlets. Would that be all right?"

"Yeah," Bumlets answered slowly. "I guess so."

She nodded. "I'll go see if I can find you a cot and blanket. Wait here, boys." Walking quickly, she disappeared behind the red velvet curtains. Soon, rummaging sounds could be heard from backstage.

"You sure you can do this, Dutchy?" Bumlets asked. "Make everyone believe I'se dead, that is."

Dutchy shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be able to?"

"You ain't exactly an actor. When you try to lie, you get a nervous grin on your face."

"What's that?" Dutchy asked sharply. "How'd you know _that_?"

Bumlets looked down, refusing to meet Dutchy's gaze. "I jus' notice things," he mumbled.

Dutchy looked at Bumlets, silently wondering, but all he said was, "Don't worry. I can do it." He paused. "In fact, I got an idea."

"...What?"

Dutchy reached down and pulled his small knife from his boot. Flourishing it, he said, "You can use this to cut your arm. If I'se gonna convince people, some blood would make it lots more convincin'."

Bumlets stared at Dutchy speechlessly. Dutchy felt his cheeks going a dull red. To mask it, he pulled his cap further down on his head and crossed his arms.

"_What_?" he asked.

Bumlets shook his head. "There's somethin'... _very_ wrong with you."

"Because I carry a knife? Lots of guys carry knives," Dutchy replied defensively.

"....It ain't the knife," Bumlets mumbled.

"Then what?" Without waiting for an answer, Dutchy flipped the knife end over end towards Bumlets, who caught it deftly. "It don't have to be a deep cut. Jus' enough to bleed some."

Bumlets sighed pathetically. "Fine. If that's what it takes..." He slowly rolled up his faded blue sleeve and set the knife against his skin.

Luckily for him, though, Medda walked back onto the stage at that moment and, seeing the knife against Bumlets' dark arm, shrieked loudly. At the shrill sound, both Dutchy and Bumlets jumped, and Bumlets dropped the knife to clatter noisily on the floor.

"What are you _doing_?" Medda exclaimed.

Dutchy gestured, feeling unaccountably foolish. "We was gonna... I mean... If I had blood on me, it'd be more convincin'."

"You're making him _cut_ himself?" she asked in horror. "Why didn't you just ask me for some stage blood?"

"Stage blood?" Bumlets said hopefully. "I don't gotta cut myself?"

"Of _course_ not," she said reassuringly. "Just wait here and I'll go get some."

As she hurried off again, Bumlets glared accusingly at Dutchy, who coughed embarrassedly and bent down to retrieve his knife.

"It was a good idea," Dutchy said guiltily. "I jus' didn't think of stage blood." He shoved the knife back into his boot.

Medda returned quickly, carrying a large glass of red, syrupy liquid. "It _was_ a good idea, Dutchy," she said, "but this will do just as well." Handing the glass over to him, she cautioned, "Don't use too much, all right? Your hands should be red, your arms a bit splattered, but don't be drenched. The human body doesn't hold that much blood."

"How d'you know all that?" Bumlets asked.

She grinned, for an instant looking almost as young as they. "When I was a student, back in Sweden, I wanted to be a doctor."

"Really? What happened?"

Medda shrugged. "Life took me in another direction. Come, Dutchy, let's get you bloody."

Five minutes later, Dutchy was ready to admit that Medda was much smarter than he was. His instinct would have been to splash the stage blood willy-nilly all over himself, but with Medda directing him as to where and how much to use it, he honestly looked like he'd tried to stem a tide of blood with his bare hands. When he looked into the mirror and saw the streaks of blood on his face, he felt physically ill. Glancing over at Bumlets' face, he saw the same revulsion and fear that he felt.

"It ain't real," he said quietly, repeating it for his own benefit. "It ain't real."

"You'd better get going, then, Dutchy," Medda said. "Don't worry about Bumlets. I'll look out for him."

Dutchy automatically stuck out his hand for Bumlets to shake, but quickly withdrew it, seeing the look on Bumlets face as he stared at his hand. He knew what Bumlets was thinking: that it could very easily have been his own blood staining Dutchy's fingers.

Looking down, Bumlets muttered, "Good luck, Dutchy. And thanks."

Dutchy nodded. "Yeah. It'll... it'll all be all right. Be careful."

There was no response, so Dutchy turned and started to walk away. He spun around, though at the sound of Bumlets' hesitant voice.

"Umm... Dutchy? Can I ask ya somethin'?"

"Yeah, go ahead," he responded, not sure why he wanted Bumlets to keep talking.

"Well... You'se Dutchy, right? Everyone calls you that. They always have, long as I can 'member, at least. So..." Bumlets scuffed his toe against the ground. "Why do they call you Dutchy when you ain't Dutch?"

Dutchy stared in surprise, for the first time noticing how Bumlets' hair kept flopping forward onto his forehead, despite his continuous efforts to slick it back. "No, I ain't Dutch," he said slowly, "but how'd you know that? I ain't never told where I came from."

"I grew up in a circus, Dutchy. I learned how to guess people's origins an' greet them in their own language... Made more money that way. Folks liked it." He shrugged. "You got blond hair, but you ain't Dutch. If I was to greet you, I'd probably say '_Guten tag.'_"

"Yeah, that's right," Dutchy said slowly. "When I was little... My family spoke German."

Bumlets grinned, clearly enjoying the idea of knowing something secret. "So why're you _Dutchy_? Why didn't you correct 'em when they first started callin' you that?"

Dutchy grinned back at Bumlets. "No one ever asked."

And that was that. Dutchy turned around, took a deep breath, and, wiping the grin from his face, ran out the door.

Once he was out of sight of Bumlets and Medda, though, it became easy to believe that it wasn't a plot, that the red that stained his hands had really pumped from a fatal wound.

As he stumbled through the streets, passersby shied away from him, looking in horror at the blood streaked boy with the glasses. About halfway back to the Lodging House, he saw the three men they'd seen on the way to the restaurant. They were leaning against a wall, smoking and muttering to each other in low voices. As he passed, they looked up at him, and one of them murmured something to another. He was gratified to see that they pushed away from the wall and followed him cautiously.

By the time Dutchy ground to a halt in front of the Lodging House, his breath was coming in short rasps and his stomach felt like it was about to jump out of his body. Racetrack was the only newsie outside, calmly smoking a cigar and idly shuffling cards. He looked up, hearing footsteps approach, and the twinkle in his eye changed to alarm as he recognized Dutchy under the splatters of blood.

"Dutchy?!" he exclaimed. "Dutchy, what—"

"B—_Bumlets_!" Dutchy managed to gasp out. "They—I—"

Race jumped to his feet and caught Dutchy just as he stumbled. "Jack!" Racetrack yelled. "Jack, get out here!"

Newsies being naturally curious creatures, Jack wasn't the only one to appear. As the tall, lanky boy with the red bandanna helped Race get Dutchy to a sitting position, Blink and Mush peered out from behind the door. Within seconds, all of the boys were pouring from the doors of the Lodging House, all gathering around Dutchy and yelling, trying to figure out what was going on, why Dutchy was covered with blood, and whose blood it was.

"All _right_!" Jack yelled above the din of boyish voices. "Everyone, be _quiet_!" Though it took a moment, the inherent note of command in Jack's voice penetrated their worried minds, and they quieted down relatively quickly. "Dutchy," Jack said insistently, "What's happened?"

Dutchy shook his head, his dazed look only half-feigned. "I...I...They got Bumlets."

Immediately, the clamor of voices rose again. Jack had to yell even louder to get their attention back. Dimly, Dutchy noticed the three suited men hovering at the edge of the mob. They were listening intently, and he knew that this was the time to act.

"Dutchy!" Jack was shaking his shoulders. "Dutchy, _who_ got Bumlets? What happened?"

"I don't know who... I just..." Dutchy stared down at his hands. "They – a knife – they _killed_ him!"

For a few seconds, the air was utterly silent, as each and every newsie stared at Dutchy in shock and abject horror.

Racetrack was the first to snap out of his dismayed trance. He said quietly, but in a voice that no one who heard it could doubt its veracity, "When we find the bastards, we'se gonna kill 'em."

That opened the floodgates. Within seconds, every newsie was shouting at the top of his voice, speaking in tones of shock, horror, sadness, and vengeance, a cry that grew until it echoed through the street. Mush had tears in his eyes, Jake and Pie Eater were whispering to each other with grim looks on their faces, Les was out-and-out crying, and Skittery was staring at the ground, pulling his cap down low so no one could see his face.

None of them had had easy lives; their childhoods had been a mix of loss and fear, sleeping under benches, and running for their lives. They'd been given bad news before, but they'd never had to hear anything like this. One of their own, one of their family, was gone.

Dutchy stared at the ground, feeling the full force of guilt. It was his fault that this was happening. He tried to console himself with the fact that if he hadn't done this, then Bumlets would actually die. At least, this time, it wasn't for real.

Jack's face was pale and his eyes were shadowed, but he put his hand on Dutchy's shoulder and spoke in a strained voice, "Dutchy. Exactly what happened?"

Dutchy gestured helplessly. "We was walkin' together... Me an' Bumlets... and these guys... they came out from an alleyway. They shoved me, and then, and then..." He dragged a dirty sleeve across his eyes. "When I got up again, Bumlets was..." He choked. "He was lyin' on the ground bleedin', and the guys was runnin' away. An' all I could do was stand there."

Suddenly, inside Dutchy, a million ancient hurts rose up to close his throat.

_All I could do was stand there._

In once second, he was Kristoff again, standing in front of the flaming wreckage of his life, unable to move, unable to cry out as everything he had known collapsed in a great burst of sparks and ash. Had they cried out? Had it hurt? In his mind's eye, he could see his mother, huddling in the corner, holding his little sisters tightly in her arms as the smoke rose. Delja was sniffling, hiding her round face in his mother's skirts, while Olenka was wailing at the top of her lungs. He saw his brother Zalek, trying to help his father fight the blaze, trying to be brave, but his pale face and frightened eyes showed him for what he was: an eight-year old boy who didn't want to die. In the end, he too ran to his mother's side, to spend his last moments clenched in her arms. And his father... His father wiped his sooty brow, his eyes red, beginning to choke, staring down on his wife and three of his four children, knowing he would give everything to save them, knowing that it was hopeless.

And outside, a small boy stood, his eyes filled with horror, too scared to even breathe.

_All I could do was stand there._

Dutchy choked, his face twisting, his fists clenching. "I...I tried to stop the blood..." he tried to continue, "...but...but..." He no longer knew whether his grief was feigned or real, whether he was thinking of his family or of Bumlets, and _why_, in the name of everything holy, he was doing this. "I...I gotta get outta here," he managed.

Everyone was once again talking all at once, but he pulled away from them and fled inside. Vaguely, he noticed one of the men tapping a shell-shocked Swifty on the shoulder and asking him something. But then he was inside, running by Kloppman, who was sitting at his desk with his head bowed. Speeding up, he dashed up the stairs, into the bathroom, dropping to his knees, skidding to a stop with his head in the toilet bowl. He tried to take a breath, but instead, his stomach lurched, and he vomited. He kept retching until there was nothing left of his steak and mashed potatoes, and even then, he continued to dry heave.

Dutchy grasped the cool porcelain bowl, trying to banish the images of his family from his mind, trying to ignore the mental picture of his mother looking down at her children, nestled trustingly in her arms, tears of grief sliding down her cheeks, as she hugged them tighter, as though her love alone could protect them from a fiery death.

He laid his forehead against the base of the toilet, shuddering. His hair was plastered to his forehead, slick with sweat. He wanted to cry, to howl, to scream as he hadn't since that day, but he couldn't. He couldn't let himself. No matter what it cost him. Curling up in a ball, he stared off into space, fighting for air.

Suddenly, there were hands on his shoulders, gently pulling him to a sitting position, wiping his forehead with a cool cloth, pulling off his glasses.

"Who is it?" Dutchy croaked, his eyes cracked to slits. "Who's there?"

"Don't worry, Dutchy," a quiet voice said. "It's Mush an' Snoddy. We wanna help."

Guilt again surged up inside Dutchy. They thought Bumlets was dead. How could he tell them that he was thinking about his family? How could he—

He struck out blindly with his fists. "Go away!" he said in a strangled voice. "Go _away_!" Dutchy's fists didn't connect with anything; he lost his balance and went sprawling to the ground again.

"Please, Dutchy," said the voice he recognized as Snoddy. "Let us help? We'se gonna help you lie down, yeah?"

"I wasn't supposed to...supposed to..." His fight gone, Dutchy let them pick him up and support him. They gently walked him over to his bed and helped him lie down.

He could hear the two of them speaking in murmurs, but he paid no attention to their words. What had he been thinking? This whole thing had been his dumb idea. And poor Bumlets, sitting alone in the green room at Irving Hall, terrified that at any moment, he was going to be killed.

Mush and Snoddy took good care of him: they cleaned off the blood, as well as cleaning off his glasses and hair. Though he put up a weak fight, they pulled off his outer layer of clothes, leaving him in his long johns. He wouldn't have admitted it, but knowing that he was no longer drenched in his guilt and deception made him feel a little more at ease.

He knew that other boys came in, speaking quietly amongst themselves, but none of them bothered him. Of that, at least, he was glad. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He wanted to curl up and die.

Gradually, consciousness began to recede. He sighed, curling up on his side, happy that this day was finally, at long last, ending.


	4. four

_The flames leapt and danced in front of his eyes. He reached out, as though he could grasp his family through the fiery veil and pull his family to safety. However, before he could reach through, his hand again dropped to his side, as a howl of despair finally ripped from his throat and he fell to his knees._

_"Why?" he yelled. "It's been eleven years! Why do I gotta start seein' this now?" His hands splayed against the cement, shaking. "I ain't a religious man, God," he whispered, "but please, please, let me wake up." Nothing happened. "Let me wake up, goddammit!" he yelled, getting angry now. "I ain't perfect, but I don't deserve this!" His hands curled into fists and he started pounding them against the cement, ignoring the heat that blasted against his face. "Let me out!"_

_"_Kristoff..._" he heard through the crackle of flames. "_Kristoff..."

_He glanced up, his eyes wide, looking around, but he was totally alone. There wasn't another person in sight, but still he heard his old name, floating on the wind._

_"_Kristoff..._"_

_"What's going on?" Dutchy shouted. "I ain't Kristoff anymore! I'se Dutchy, and I got to live my own life without you hauntin' me!"_

_"_Come here, Kristoff..._" came the whisper in German. "_Come join us..._"_

_"No! You're dead and I ain't. It ain't my _fault_!"_

_Ever so slowly, a spectral hand reached out from the inferno to beckon to him. As he watched in horror, the shape of his mother coalesced in the flames. _"You belong with us, Kristoff,_" she whispered. "_It won't hurt. Just take my hand, _mein kleines kind. _It'll be all right then._"_

_"N—no!" Dutchy slammed his eyes shut, praying that the vision would go away when he opened them again. But he whimpered as he opened them again and his mother still beckoned to him reassuringly. "I can't!" Despite his words, tears came to his eyes at the sight of her, reaching out to him._

_"_Oh, _mein kind_, I've missed you so... I worried so for you, left all alone in the world, with no _mutter_ or _vater_ to take care of you."

"_Mama..." he murmured, almost against his will. "Oh, mama. Why did you leave me?"_

_"_It wasn't by choice, Kristoff. But all that can be fixed, now that you're here. Please, _suesses kind_, my darling child, please take my hand."

_His hand wavered. She looked at him as though her heart were breaking. "Mama, I can't. I got a life here. I got friends...people who care 'bout me. I can't go and desert them!"_

_"_We're all here... Your father, your brother, your sisters, and me... Please, Kristoff, time is short! Please!"

_Slowly, drawn on by her despairing tone, he lifted his hand. Placing it in hers, he was surprised to find that it felt solid, closing lovingly around his own. She smiled at him._

_"_Oh, Kristoff, how I've waited..."

_Ever so slowly, she started to draw him forwards, closer and closer to the fire. The heat blasted against his face, blowing his hair back from his forehead. Even the metal frames of his glasses began to heat uncomfortably, until, hissing in pain, he lifted his free hand and knocked them off. Immediately, his vision went fuzzy, but he was still getting closer and closer to the flames._

_"Mama," he said hesitantly, then more stridently as it grew hotter. "Mama! I don't know if I can—" His words broke off as his mother turned her head to look at him. Even without his glasses, he could see the sweet smile on her face transforming to something malevolent. _

_"_You thought you could go away and leave us all alone,_" she hissed, her grip on his hand turning to iron._ _"_We were burning to death, and you just stood there and watched._"_

_"What could I have done?!" he screamed. "Let me _go_!"_

_Suddenly, there was another grip around his wrist. It belonged to his littlest sister, Olenka, who was not yet old enough to speak, but who glowered at him with real hatred in her eyes._

_"Please," he begged, "please, no..."_

_His father's large hand wrapped around his left arm and pulled him forward._

_"Oh, _Gott in himmel_," he pled, not even sure what language he was speaking, far beyond caring._

_When he glanced down, his brother and remaining sister, Delja and Zalek, had reached out from the inferno to grasp his ankles. They stared up at him, their faces accusing._

_"It ain't my fault!" he screamed as the implacable grips of his family pulled him into the flames, and god, how it hurt. How it burned and flame licked through him, torturing him blinding him stabbing him through the heart and sucking him dry as he melted skin dripping from his bones bones crumbling into dust as he screamed and screamed and_

screamed, sitting straight up in bed. His heart felt like it was about to pound straight out his chest.

"Dutchy? Dutchy, it's all right! You'se all right!"

He looked around and at first glance, his bed seemed to be surrounded by dark, ominous shapes, nebulous forms reaching out to him. He recoiled, but then the face of one of them came into focus.

Dutchy blinked. "_Ich kenne sie..._" he whispered. "_Ich denke, daß ich habe._"

There was a murmuring around him, and the one he'd recognized said, "Dutchy, can ya talk in English? I don't know what you'se sayin'."

He shook his head, his mind a blank, but managed to stammer out, "I...I know you, right?" Reaching up a trembling hand to slick back his hair, he found that he was soaked in sweat.

"Yeah, you know me," the boy looking at him said quietly. "It's Racetrack, remember? You was havin' a dream."

"A dream?" Dutchy rubbed his eyes, the shapes around his bed coming into slightly better focus. They were all other boys, and he knew them all.

"Sounded like a real kicker too," Racetrack said. "You was thrashin' 'round and screamin' in another language. Scared the hell outta all of us too." He glanced around. "Not that we can really blame ya, after..."

"After...?" He blinked, memories still fuzzy. Slowly, they began to come back. Bumlets... and the blood. For a moment, his heart nearly stopped, but then he remembered that Bumlets wasn't really dead, that it was all a plot to fool the clowns. And now he remembered again who he was and what he had dreamt. "Oh."

Racetrack looked around, at the sea of faces surrounding them, then looked back at Dutchy, who was nervously fiddling with his thin blanket. "Dutchy, let's get you some air, okay? Jus' you and me. The rest of you'se all, go back to bed."

Even though Jack was their leader, they all knew that Race was usually to be obeyed without question, so with nary a grumble, they dispersed and headed back to their own bunks. Mush, however, lingered a moment and rested a comforting hand on Dutchy's shoulder before following the others.

"C'mon," Race said, extending a hand to help Dutchy up. Normally, Dutchy would have laughed and teased Race about being a whole head shorter than he, and whether the right person was being helped, but tonight, being very shaky and worn out, he was grateful for Race's solid grip around his waist as they slowly walked down the steps and out the front door.

Race had been right; the instant Dutchy stepped into the cool night air, away from the musty air of the Lodging House, his head began to clear a bit. He took his glasses from Race's outstretched hands, and put them on gratefully, somewhat relieved to have the world come into focus. Silently, they both sat down on the front stoop. Race, with an ease born of long habit, took out a cigar and a match. As he struck the match against the cement step and a small flame came to life with the smell of sulfur, Dutchy involuntarily shuddered. All these years, he'd managed to suppress his adverse reaction to even the smallest flames, but now, in the shadow of that nightmare, with his family's screams still echoing in his mind, he couldn't control it.

Race, with his sharp eyes, caught the shudder. "You cold?"

"Nah, ain't that," Dutchy said shortly.

The shorter boy looked curious, but evidently got the message that Dutchy didn't care to talk about that particular subject. "Look, Dutchy, we'se all a little worried about you."

"Gee, thanks," Dutchy muttered.

"I know it ain't the best time to ask, but I was wonderin' if you managed to remember anythin' about the bastards who killed Bumlets. We ain't gonna let 'em get away with it, and we'se gonna give 'em one for you too."

"Don't do me no favors."

Looking at Dutchy's jutting chin and his still-distraught face, Race sighed. "You really cared 'bout him, didn't you?"

Dutchy looked up. "Huh? Race, what're you talkin' about?"

"Bumlets," Racetrack said quietly.

"Well, yeah," Dutchy said. "I mean, he was a newsie, same as the rest of us."

"I didn't mean like _that_, Dutchy." Race removed his cigar from his mouth and blew a perfect smoke ring, staring up at the sky contemplatively. "He cared 'bout you a lot too."

Dutchy glanced over at Race, his eyes widening, sure that Race couldn't be saying what he thought he was saying. "Listen, Race, thanks for the air, but—"

"You didn't know, didja? Dutchy, you'se got your heart in the right place, but you don't notice nothin', do ya?" Race coughed and cleared his throat. "He always watched you, you know, when you wasn't lookin'. He'd look at you like you was the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen."

Dutchy swallowed hard. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be.

"So, if he had to die, I guess that he'd be happy that you was the one that was with him."

"Race, you don't know what you'se sayin'," Dutchy responded hotly. "If he'd felt that way 'bout me, he'd have told me. You'se just imaginin' things, that's all."

"I asked him." Race shrugged. "He made me promise never to tell you, 'cause he thought you'd never feel the same way back, but now that he's...he's dead, I guess that it don't hurt nobody for you to know." Dutchy nodded, keeping his face stony and expressionless, though his stomach was doing flip-flops. After a glance at Dutchy, Race continued, "At the time, I agreed with him, but now, lookin' at ya, I wish I'd told him to tell you."

"What're you sayin', Race?" Dutchy asked. "And what's the point?"

"Point is that you feel 'bout him the same way he felt 'bout you." Seeing the look on Dutchy's face, Race sighed and said, "You really don't notice anythin', do ya, Dutchy? You'se so wrapped up in your own problems that you don't even notice your own feelings."

"Those ain't my feelings!" Dutchy sputtered. "I don't like _guys_!"

Race shrugged. "Suit yourself. But it's somethin' you maybe should consider."

Dutchy opened his mouth to blast Race with a scathing reply, but before he could so much as gesture angrily, he was cut off by a calm voice.

"Excuse me. Might I have a word with you two gentlemen?"

Both Race and Dutchy jumped, startled. Dutchy stared at the tall, imposing-looking man who had interrupted them. It was one of the men who had been chasing Bumlets and who had followed Dutchy back to the Lodging House. And so, Dutchy thought with a nervous tic in his eye, this dapper man in the immaculate suit, carrying a gold-plated cane, must be one of the murderous clowns.

"We was havin' a private conversation," Race said coolly, "and ain't the middle of the night a strange time to walk 'round Manhattan?"

"It won't take but a minute," the man said. "I was in the area earlier and I heard that one of your friends was killed in a knife fight today?"

Dutchy glared up into the man's eyes. "What's it to you? Yeah, a friend of mine was killed. Now, go away."

"Would you mind describing the boy to me?"

"Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin," Race said shortly. "Why, you know who killed him or somethin'?"

"No, but it's a subject that I happen to have a great deal of fascination with. You see, I believe this friend of yours, if he was the same boy, well, I had some news for him."

"News?" Racetrack said darkly. "Well, if it's the same guy, it's a bit late, ain't it?"

"I suppose so," the man replied, shaking his head in a regretful manner.

"What news?" Dutchy asked. "What could you possibly have had to say to him, huh?"

"It had to do with his family. However, if the boy in question is...deceased, I suppose I should be moving along." The man tipped his hat. "Good evening to you boys."

"Wait!" Dutchy said urgently, just as the man was turning away. "Did you say, um, his...family?" As he looked up at the man's cool blue eyes, Bumlets' words came back to him: _"__I don't want to go back to the circus, but I'd like to let 'em know that I'se alive... and I'd like to know that they worried about me."_ He knew that he shouldn't show any interest in the man's words, but if he could take some sort of news to Bumlets, anything that would cheer him up, it might make Dutchy feel better too. His own family was gone, long gone, but maybe he could give Bumlets back his family. "He...he told me 'bout his family, so maybe you could tell me? Even if he ain't around anymore, yeah?"

"I...see," the slender man said. "Well, your friend used to be a circus performer, and we owed him a favor, so we asked around other circuses and we found his family."

"You found his family?" Dutchy repeated, a vein of excitement flowing through him. "Where?"

"It doesn't really matter," the clown said. "It is such a pity though... We unjustly accused the boy of something, and we did this as a way of making it up to him. _Such_ a pity."

Dutchy swore to himself. How could he make the clown tell him where Bumlets' family was without telling him that Bumlets wasn't dead? "I...He...If you told me where his family is, I could go and tell 'em what happened. He'd want me to tell 'em." Inwardly, he congratulated himself. What a perfect line! There was no way that anyone could deny him with a plea like that. It was foolproof.

"It's a nice thought, boy," the man said, "but I'll save you the trouble. I'll let his family know myself." He again tipped his hat and turned to leave.

"_Tell_ me!" Dutchy said, uncomfortably aware of the strange look Racetrack was giving him. "_Please_ tell me!"

The man looked back over his shoulder. "They're traveling with the Carson and Barnes Circus, which will be coming to town in approximately one month."

_One month_! It was all Dutchy could do to keep the sad expression on his face. _He's gonna be so happy to hear it! Finally, I'se doin' somethin' right._ "Thanks, mister," he said quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching despite his efforts. "When it comes to town, I'se gonna go see 'em and tell 'em about..." He hung his head.

"Of course, boy," the man said. "Best of luck to you." With a final nod, he cleared his throat and walked away, twirling his cane nonchalantly.

Dutchy could barely contain himself. Not only was Bumlets not going to die, but he was going to find his family! He could almost see the smile on Bumlets' face, his white teeth flashing, his dark eyes dancing.

"Dutchy?" Racetrack asked cautiously.

Dutchy's head snapped up so quickly that his glasses fell off his nose and landed in his lap. He had completely forgotten that he wasn't alone. Sheepishly picking up his glasses, he coughed and said, "Yeah, Race?"

"What was that all 'bout? What's goin' on?"

"I..." Dutchy looked down again, wanting to not lie anymore. "I can't tell ya, Race. Not yet."

"You'se hidin' somethin'. Don't think I don't see it. Maybe the other guys don't, but I do. You in trouble, or somethin'?"

"I said already. I can't tell ya yet," Dutchy replied irritably, looking around. The clown was definitely gone; he'd turned a corner, and was no longer visible. "Look...I gotta go, all right? I'll be back later."

He jumped to his feet. There was no time to lose. He couldn't wait to tell Bumlets about his family.

"_Dutchy_!" Race exclaimed.

"No time, no time," Dutchy said hurriedly, itching to be gone. "We'll talk later, okay?"

"I don't think you'se in a condition to go wanderin' the streets," Racetrack said firmly. "Ten minutes ago, you was screamin' in another language and didn't recognize us, and now you want to go for a midnight run? Ain't a good idea, I'm tellin' ya."

Dutchy looked down at Race, still sitting on the stoop with the cigar. "I..." He sighed. "Look, Race, I know I'm not dressed, I know that I ain't doin' too well right now, but this is important. This could fix things, and I know you don't understand, but that's how it is."

"I'se coming with you." Before Dutchy could open his mouth to protest, Race continued, "You ain't gonna stop me, Dutchy, and if you try, I'se just gonna follow you, so you might as well accept it and let me come."

Dutchy bit his lip. "I wish I could let you come. I really do. But..." he raked his hair off of his forehead, struggling to put his fragmented thoughts into words. "A whole lot is ridin' on what happens, Race. This is real important, and I can't take the chance of it gettin' messed up. I...know that I can't stop you, but if..." He trailed off, not wanting to say it.

"If what?" Race asked. He crossed his arms.

"If you care 'bout...'bout me and 'bout all of us, and 'specially 'bout Bumlets, you won't."

"Bumlets?" Race said sharply. "Listen, Bumlets is dead. I cared 'bout him, but I don't see how anythin' now could make much of a difference to him. You'se barefoot and in your underwear, and you want to go runnin' around? Either you don't go, or I go with you. I care 'bout _you_, and that's why I ain't about to let you do somethin' stupid."

Dutchy hung his head, his blond hair flopping into his eyes. Silently, he cursed Racetrack for being such a good friend. He knew that, were the positions reversed, he wouldn't let anyone run off half-naked in the middle of the night, but on the other hand... He had information about Bumlets' family, and he had to make this all up to him somehow. Shifting his weight back and forth, and looking around helplessly, Dutchy finally had to come to the decision that the news about Bumlets' family would have to wait. At least, it would have to wait until Racetrack fell back to sleep and he could sneak out.

"Fine," he sighed. "Let's go back inside. I'se real tired."

Racetrack nodded, but it was clear from the look in his eyes that Dutchy's sudden capitulation had made him suspicious. "Right. You first."

Dutchy laughed, though it sounded strained, even to his ears. "I ain't gonna run the second you turn your back, Race." He shrugged and walked back inside, feeling Race's dark eyes burning a hole in his back all the way up the stairs.


	5. five

Dutchy lay uncomfortably on the thin bed. Never before had the lumps in the old mattress felt so lumpy, never had the sheets felt so scratchy, and never had the normal nighttime sounds of other sleeping boys echoed so cavernously in his ears. It felt as though he'd been lying there for hours, hoping for some sort of sign that Racetrack had succumbed to fatigue. After all, he couldn't sneak out of the Lodging House if Racetrack was awake.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his head and squinted until the blurs began to come into hazy focus. He still couldn't see clearly, but even though Race was lying several bunks over, it was clear that his eyes were closed, his face relaxed. In one smooth movement, Dutchy grabbed his glasses from where they were lying, next to his head, and slipped them on his face. His quick glance around the room revealed no suspicious glances or postures; everyone was simply asleep.

He rose from his bed, fleetingly wishing that Bumlets was still sleeping right above him, as he had slept every night for years. But there was no time for wishing, no time for shoes or even for pants. If Dutchy wanted to sneak out silently, he would have to go as he was, and right away. He didn't know precisely what time it was, but the slow lightening of the sky outside the window told him that it was nearing dawn, and that Kloppman would be waking up soon.

Stepping over creaky boards with an ease borne of years of experience, he tiptoed down the stairs and let himself out through the front door. Had he been paying more attention at that last moment, Dutchy would have noticed Race's and Jack's eyes opening, and he would definitely have noticed the grim look they shot at each other.

But he hadn't noticed. His brain had already been filled with images of the delighted grin Bumlets was sure to shoot his way. Not only had his family been located, not only that, but the clowns weren't after him to kill him to begin with! It had just been one big, gigantic misunderstanding, one that Dutchy was looking forward to getting cleared up.

He hated seeing his friends sad, especially when it was all his fault. He hated lying, and he didn't like what this entire charade was doing to him. Remembering his nightmare, and hearing once again the ghostly voice of his mother in his ears, he paused and shivered, despite the warm night.

Despite his aching feet, he managed to move at a fairly brisk pace towards Irving Hall. He wasn't sure why, but he had this feeling deep inside that if he could just make Bumlets smile, it would make everything better.

Abruptly, he halted and stared at the cobblestones. If he told Bumlets about his family, then Bumlets might want to leave, to go back to his family.

"No," he whispered. "That ain't what he told me. He said he wasn't gonna go back." He paused, his confident words ringing false. As much as Dutchy loved the newsies, if someone told him to choose between the newsies and having his family back... "If I can give him back his family," he said aloud, testing the words, "I oughta. It's the right thing to do, ain't it?" All the same, thoughts of life without Bumlets seemed...gray and dull.

He sighed, and resumed his march towards Irving Hall, but some of the bounce was gone from his step.

When he looked up and saw the giant sign proclaiming that he had reached his destination, he couldn't quite decide how he felt. On the one hand, he would make Bumlets happy, and if he could do that, everything would be all right again. His family would stop haunting him. On the other...

"No! He ain't gonna leave!" With a firm nod, Dutchy resigned himself to whatever this would bring, and marched inside. He didn't stop until he reached the green room and knocked firmly on the door.

"Bumlets!" he called softly through the door. "It's Dutchy! I got news!"

For a few seconds, there was silence, then Dutchy could hear some quiet rustling. The door cracked open and Bumlet's dark eyes looked out at him. At the sight, Dutchy almost grinned.

"Let me in, ya idiot," he said. "I ain't bein' followed."

Without a word, Bumlets opened the door further, and Dutchy hurried in. When he turned to face Bumlets, he nearly swallowed his tongue. Bumlets wasn't wearing a shirt. Dutchy forced his eyes upward.

"Well?" Bumlets asked quietly. "How'd the guys take it?"

"Uh..." Dutchy scratched the back of his head, suddenly not wanting to meet Bumlets' eyes. "They believed me."

"Good, I...guess..." Bumlets trailed off and both boys looked at each other in silence.

Finally, Dutchy brightened again. "Oh! And I got some good news!"

"Really?" A tired grin touched Bumlets' face, and Dutchy realized how exhausting this all must be for him. "Well, what is it? I could use good news."

"It's about your family," Dutchy said, pulling his cap off of his head. "I... I found out where they are." He held his breath, waiting for Bumlets' reaction.

"You _what_?" Bumlets didn't look as happy as Dutchy had hoped.

"Yeah, I..." he faltered. "I mean, I didn't _find_ 'em, but..." He trailed off again. "They'se gonna be in town in about a month, with the Carson and...and..." Damn, why couldn't he remember the name? "...and _Barnes_ Circus," he finished triumphantly. "And I wanted to come and tell ya right away, 'cause I...I wanted..."

"What didja want, Dutchy?" Bumlets asked quietly, his voice steady.

Race's words came back suddenly. _He always watched you, you know, when you wasn't lookin'. He'd look at you like you was the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen._ Dutchy felt heat rising to his face. He'd responded that he didn't like boys like that, and he'd meant it. He really had. But somehow, Bumlets was different. Dutchy had known that for a while. Even when he hated the world, he'd never hated Bumlets. He never would have admitted to anyone that Bumlets' smile always gave him a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. Looking at Bumlets right now, Dutchy couldn't imagine what he would do if he woke up one morning and didn't have Bumlets snoring in the bunk above.

And suddenly, Dutchy knew. He _knew_. With every fiber in his body, he knew. He'd always ignored it before, but now, standing face-to-face with Bumlets, all alone together in the hushed night, it was only too clear.

"I wanted to tell you," Dutchy began, his head pounding crazily and his stomach turning flip-flops, "'cause I wanted to make you happy. And I wanted to make you happy 'cause I...I..."

His mouth was dry. Though he wanted desperately to say it, the words wouldn't come. He reminded himself of Race's words, of the fact that Bumlets liked him. All the same, he couldn't shake the notion that if he said it, Bumlets would turn away in disgust, would reject him. And then Dutchy would be all alone again. With no one to love.

Luckily, Bumlets saved him before he passed out and spoke first. "I still remember the first time I met ya, Dutchy."

"Oh, yeah?" Dutchy croaked.

Bumlets took a step closer. "Yeah. It was my first time at the Lodging House, and I was kinda scared. I missed my family, and I didn't know what I was gonna do. I went upstairs. There was a whole bunch of guys in there, and you was lyin' on your bunk with your hat over your eyes. I took the bunk above yours 'cause it didn't look like anyone had slept there, an' I didn't want to take someone else's. So I lay down, and a minute later, you popped up and looked at me. You asked me if I was new and then you smiled at me. An' I smiled back. Ever since then, I always thought that you was special."

Dutchy smiled then. It spread over his face, uncontrollably, and shone out of his eyes. He only smiled like that when he was really happy, and both boys knew it.

"I ain't special," Dutchy replied. He rubbed at the back of his neck, aware that Bumlets had taken another step closer. "Me? I'se a selfish bastard who never lifted a finger to help no one, and told myself it was okay 'cause no one ever really helped me. But you...You always helped me when I needed it, and you didn't ask for nothin' in return neither. You'se the special one, an' you always was, Bumlets."

Bumlets smiled back, his white teeth flashing in his dark face, though there was a trace of nervousness in his eyes. "That was when I told myself that it was okay if I didn't find my family. When you smiled at me, Dutchy. That even if I found 'em, I wouldn't go back. 'Cause I told myself that I didn't need family as long as I had..." He paused, searching Dutchy's face.

It was ridiculous. They both knew, and they both knew that the other one knew, but both were too scared to say it first. There was a moment of silence, when neither could find the words to speak.

Dutchy stared at the room around them, trying to bolster his courage. Medda's costumes hung from every surface, creating a strange kind of plush decadence around them.

"Did I ever tell ya about my family?" he said, the words surprising even him.

"No..." Bumlets said, confusion on his face.

"I'll...tell ya sometime," Dutchy said. "I ain't never told no one, but I'll tell you, Bumlets."

That was all he could say. And that was all he needed to say. Bumlets understood.

Now standing close enough, he reached out a hand and gently touched Dutchy's hair. Then he slowly drew off Dutchy's glasses, leaving Dutchy utterly vulnerable. Somehow, Dutchy didn't mind, though he did reach out and grab his glasses back to hold. Even though he could no longer see Bumlets as clearly, he could still feel the heat of Bumlets' gaze. His breath began coming in short gasps.

"You got gorgeous eyes," Bumlets breathed. "I don't think I'se ever seen you without the glasses before."

Dutchy managed to shrug, though his every nerve was tightly-strung and humming softly. "I don't see real good without 'em. Sometimes I forget to take 'em off before I go to sleep." Bumlets' hand was now stroking his cheek, distracting him immensely.

"I know," Bumlets said, and Dutchy could hear the grin in his voice. "Sometimes I look at you while you'se sleeping."

"I...I..." Dutchy gasped as the warm hand firmly cupped his cheek. "I watch you in the mornings...when we go to work."

"You do?"

He wanted to reciprocate, but he couldn't find the courage to reach out and touch Bumlets. Not yet. "Yeah, I kinda...like watchin' the sun on your hair."

Bumlets' other hand crept towards the back of Dutchy's neck, lightly playing with the blond strands. Now that he was closer, Dutchy could see his face again, and he looked, as if for the first time, at the smooth cocoa skin, at the big brown eyes, the shining hair, and the mouth...Oh, god, the mouth.

Probably having seen where Dutchy was staring, Bumlets said, "I watch you eat sometimes."

He was so close now that Dutchy could simply bring his hand up between them and place it on Bumlets' chest, and he did, marveling at the warmth and strength of the skin underneath.

"I watch you twirl the stick around, most days," Dutchy said, staring at his hand, so comfortable on Bumlets' bare skin. Slowly, he moved his hand upwards and traced the line of Bumlets' collar bone back and forth with a single finger. "And I like watchin' you walk, too," he blurted out, hoping that his face couldn't possibly get any redder. "If you was a girl, you coulda been a dancer."

A warm hand tilted his chin upwards until he was looking deeply into Bumlets' eyes, so close.

"But I ain't a girl," Bumlets said. His voice was quiet, but there was a note of warning in there. Dutchy heard it, clear as day, and knew that this was his last chance to leave.

Suddenly bold, he slid his free hand around Bumlets' side and let it rest at the small of his back as his glasses fell to the floor, forgotten. "No, you ain't a girl," Dutchy agreed. "And don't I know it."

Finally, their lips touched. Ever so softly and timid at first, the kisses quickly grew in length and passion. Neither one was sure who opened his mouth first, but within moments, their tongues were darting in and out of each other's mouths with impunity.

Bumlets' hands were busy holding Dutchy's head to his, as though he were afraid that the blond boy would run away if he let go. Dutchy, however, felt free to let his hands roam up and down Bumlets' torso, though he was too shy to let his hands wander below Bumlets' waist. He'd never realized before how muscular Bumlets was.

He told Bumlets so in between kisses. Bumlets' only response was to tell him to be quiet and keep kissing him.

As they kissed and held each other, Dutchy's head felt like it was whirling. He'd never felt anything like this before, not even during his few sweaty fumblings with girls he'd met. This was different. This was...right. He clutched at Bumlets' shoulders, sure that he'd fall down if Bumlets didn't hold him up.

And Bumlets did hold him, his hands sliding around Dutchy's back. All the same, though, Dutchy felt himself beginning the inevitable slide towards the floor, Bumlets with him.

He'd forgotten everything: his family, the clowns, the newsies...everything. All that mattered was right here and now, was in his arms. And he might not have ever remembered the rest of it had not a cold voice sounded from the door.

"Well, now. Isn't this sweet?"

Their heads both snapped around in alarm, though only Bumlets could actually see the man who was casually lounging in the doorway. Dutchy blinked and squinted, trying to see, but all he could make out was a blur. He could see Bumlets' face clearly, though, and judging by the grayish pallor the other boy now had, Dutchy had a feeling that this was going to be a very bad situation.

"How'd you find me?" Bumlets asked, his voice so harsh that Dutchy knew that terror lay beneath.

The man in the doorway laughed, though it was a cruel sound. "It was easy enough. We just followed your little 'friend' here. He led us straight to you."

Dutchy let out a strangled gasp. What had he done? Had he unintentionally betrayed the one person he really cared for? He took one glance at the expression on Bumlets' face and started babbling desperately. "Bumlets, I swear I didn't know, I swear it. You gotta believe me; I'd never do anythin' to hurt ya. You gotta know that, right? Right?"

Bumlets took a step away, keeping his gaze on the doorway as one, two, three, four men filed in, blocking the escape route. "At this point, it ain't gonna make much of a difference whether you knew or not, Dutchy."

It felt as though someone had stabbed him through the heart. No, it was worse than that. It felt more like someone had taken a blunt instrument, jammed it into his chest, pushed it around for a while, and pulled his heart out.

The tallest of the four men walked forward slowly, every movement menacing, and towered over Bumlets. "We've waited a long time for this, you little bastard," he snarled. "And now we've finally got you." He drew back his hand and punched Bumlets in the face. Letting out a short cry of pain, Bumlets stumbled backwards and barely managed to catch himself on the edge of the couch. "That was for Bozo!" The tall man straightened his coat, and snapped his fingers. "Boys?" he said. "Grab him."

As two of the other blobs that Dutchy assumed were men began to move forward, Dutchy's brain finally kicked back into motion. He couldn't let them hurt Bumlets. He just _couldn't_. Though he was no match for any of these men, particularly not without his glasses, he was going to have to do something brave...or stupid. He wasn't sure which.

Letting out a frightening (he hoped) roar, he lunged towards the tall man and tackled him. The man didn't go tumbling to the floor, but he was thrown off balance by Dutchy's leap. For his part, Dutchy swung his fists in the direction of the man's face, hoping that a swing or two would connect, and shouted, "Bumlets! Run!"

He couldn't tell what was happening beyond the world of his pummeling fists, so he couldn't see what Bumlets was doing, though he heard the sounds of a desperate struggle.

The tall man managed to catch Dutchy's fists and tossed him to the ground, knocking the breath out of him. When he glanced up, trying to breathe, he saw the blur that was Bumlets imprisoned between the blurs that were two of the clowns.

"No..." he moaned, terrified that they were going to kill Bumlets right here, right now, right in front of him. "I can't..."

Before he could try to struggle to his feet, there was a sudden choked cry from the doorway. As all heads swiveled around, Dutchy could only see that one of the clowns had just been knocked down by two newcomers.

Though he couldn't see their faces, their voices were familiar and entirely welcome.

"Well, well, Jack. What have we got 'ere, huh?"

"Dunno, Race. It looks like some bums are tryin' to hurt some of our boys, though."

"Yeah, it does kinda look like that, though..." Racetrack's voice faltered. "Though I wasn't expectin' to see Bumlets here..."

Dutchy swallowed. There would be hell to pay for this. He levered himself from the floor and threw himself at the feet of the tallest man, finally knocking him to the ground, just as Race and Jack jumped over the body of the man they'd already knocked down and went after the two men who were holding Bumlets.

For the next several minutes, the only sounds in the room were the cracking noises of fists against flesh and the sharp grunts that accompanied them. For his part, Dutchy wasn't doing too well against the tall clown. He'd gotten punched several times, and could already feel one of his eyes beginning to swell closed.

He was about to start biting the man's fleshy arm when Jack shouted, "Bumlets! Get outta here!"

"I can't leave you guys!" came the reply, punctuated with the sound of a sharp kick.

"We's fine. _Go!_"

Suddenly frozen, Dutchy watched as Bumlets shoved past one of the clowns and raced out of the room. The sound of his footsteps began to recede within seconds. With an angry yell, the tall clown flung Dutchy away from him and ran after Bumlets.

Once he was gone, Jack and Racetrack made short work of the remaining two men, who barely managed to make it to the door and limp off after their compatriot. One lingered long enough to snarl, "This isn't over, boys. We know where you live, and we'll be back for you!"

Then all was silence. Dutchy lay still, breathing heavily. He was vaguely aware of Racetrack and Jack, neither much the worse for the wear, walking over to stand above him, looking down.

"My glasses?" he croaked.

"Broken," Jack replied flatly. "Dutchy, you got some serious explainin' to do."

"I know," Dutchy said miserably, wiping a hand across his nose and noting the blood that smeared the back of it. "Can you guys jus...help me sit up? I'll tell ya everythin', I promise."

He was helped to a sitting position, none-too-gently.

As he gazed off in the general direction of the door, futilely wishing that Bumlets would come back, Dutchy tried to think of the quickest way to explain this whole awful situation to Jack and Race, who weren't looking very charitable.

"Okay. Okay," he said. "So...Yeah." He paused again, then said in a rush, "So the clowns're after Bumlets, and we kinda thought the best way to make 'em cheese it was to make you'se guys think that he's dead, but-but-the-whole-plan-kinda-backfired-and-now-BumletsisgoneandmyglassesarebrokenandIdon'tknowwhattodo!" He stared fixedly at the ground, his head pounding.

Both Racetrack and Jack were silent for a long moment, probably attempting to sort out Dutchy's hurried words.

Finally, Race squatted down close to look Dutchy in his nearsighted eyes. "Dutchy... We followed ya here 'cause we was worried about you. You'se our _friend_, and we ain't gonna just desert you. But..."

"How could ya _do_ this to us?" Jack burst out, interrupting Racetrack. "You made us all think he was _dead_. Did you _see_ what that did to everyone?"

"I know!" Dutchy cried out. "I know, I saw, I saw it all, Cowboy. I only did it 'cause I was tryin' to...to _help_ Bumlets."

"An' you couldn't have come to us?" Jack replied coldly. "Newsies always back each other up, Dutchy. They don't...do _this_."

Dutchy felt a stinging behind his eyes and blinked as rapidly as he could, though his bruised and swollen eye wasn't responding too well. "Look, I'se real sorry, okay? I jus' wanted to do the right thing."

"Great job," Jack said curtly.

"_Jack_!" Race cut in. "You ain't helpin'." He sighed. "Look, Dutchy. Maybe it'd be good if you tried to get some sleep."

"Maybe," Dutchy muttered. "I ain't seein' too good, though, so I'se gonna trip on everythin' on the way back."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Racetrack cleared his throat.

"I think...maybe it'd be good if ya didn't come back to the Lodging House for now, Dutchy."

Dutchy snapped his head up, ignoring the pain it caused. "_What_?" he exclaimed, his voice wavering. "You're—"

"I believe that you was tryin' to help Bumlets," Race said quickly, "but all the same... The guys ain't gonna take this too good, know what I mean? Safer for you to stay here."

He wouldn't cry. He hadn't cried since the day his _real_ family had died, and he wasn't about to start now.

"So what do I do?" Dutchy asked bitterly. "Sit in this room and pretend I don't exist?"

"That's a good start," Jack muttered, and slammed out of the room, pausing only to yell, "Racetrack! We're _goin'_."

Race said quietly to Dutchy, "You can still sell papes, but you'll want to show up at Distribution after we'se all already through the line. I'll...tell Kloppman that your glasses are broke, and maybe he'll get you some new ones."

With that, he nodded, stood up, and followed Jack. Dutchy was left all alone in the messy room with nothing but his shattered glasses and a heart that was nearly the same.


	6. six

The remainder of the night was as torturous a time as Dutchy had ever known. After giving up on worriedly pacing back and forth, he tossed and turned on the narrow cot so recently occupied by Bumlets. It wasn't until near dawn that he finally dropped into a troubled sleep...which was interrupted shortly thereafter when Medda showed up to give Bumlets a meal.

She had been expecting to see sweet, kind Bumlets hopefully sleeping peacefully. Unfortunately, what she received was a polar opposite: a grimy, bruised, exhausted, and frankly terrified Dutchy. When she walked into the room, Dutchy was lying on his stomach, hiding his face against the cot. He'd woken up only moments before, when she had unlocked the theatre door, and wasn't particularly looking forward to giving explanations.

He wasn't even looking forward to finding some explanations for _himself_ either. At some point, all alone in the green room and half blind, he'd numbly categorized his problems in order of importance: no Bumlets, no friends, no family, no money, evil clowns, and no glasses. All in all, he hadn't been so sure that it was worth getting up in the morning.

"Dutchy?" Medda asked cautiously, touching his shoulder. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," he muttered, his voice raspy. He didn't look up at her.

Her voice became concerned. "Are you all right?"

"Just _dandy_."

This time, she paused before asking the next question. "Where's Bumlets?"

"Gone."

"Gone?!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean, _gone_?"

Dutchy was getting very tired of this line of questioning, so he flipped over and looked up at her through the eye that wasn't swollen shut. "Gone. Exactly what I said. Can I go back to sleep now?"

Medda gasped at the sight of him, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, my! Dutchy, what happened?"

If there was one thing that Medda was good at besides performing, it was coaxing information out of reluctant boys. Dutchy _really_ didn't want to explain this whole mess again, but somehow, he found himself pouring out the whole sordid tale (with the exception of what had passed between him and Bumlets just before the clowns found them). Unlike Jack and Racetrack, Medda listened quietly, restraining herself to making concerned and supportive noises as he talked wearily.

When he'd finished, Medda sighed. "Oh, Dutchy. What a mess you're in."

"I _know_," Dutchy burst out. "An' the worst part is that I was jus' tryin' to _help_."

"Of course you were." She put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "And I'm sure that Bumlets knows that."

"Yeah, if the clowns ain't killed him yet," Dutchy said darkly. "And besides that, try tellin' the other guys I wasn't tryin' to hurt them. I don't think I ever seen Jack and Race so steamed." He stared down at the blurred outline of his hands, hating himself for the stinging in his eyes.

"Well..." Medda paused. "What about the others? You don't know what they think yet."

"'Course I do. They'se all gonna hate me too."

Medda smiled warmly. "They might surprise you, Dutchy." She paused briefly. "Now, I _did_ bring some breakfast for Bumlets, but I'm sure that you need it just as much. After that, you should go and see the other boys. They might be annoyed, but they are your friends, and they won't just desert you."

"But Race said that I shouldn't!" Dutchy exclaimed. "He said that if I sell papes, I oughta show up after they've all left."

"Dutchy," she scolded gently, "how can you fairly judge your friends without knowing if they've judged you or not?"

He looked gloomily at the ground. "'Cause I know them."

"Just try?" she asked. "And when you're done, come back here, and we'll see what we can do to get you all cleaned up and find Bumlets."

Dutchy sighed. "Fine. I'll try. you spot me two bits? I ain't got any money right now."

"Of course," Medda confirmed. "Though you should make it a habit to always keep at least twenty-five cents on your person, Dutchy."

Dutchy managed to hold his tongue long enough for her to dig out a quarter and hand it to him. "Thanks," he mumbled. "I'se gonna be back soon." He stumbled over to the door and reached for where he thought the knob would be.

"Wait!" Medda exclaimed. "Don't you want breakfast? Or to wash up?"

"Nah. Don't need any of that." He trudged out the door, vaguely wondering how he was going to find his way to the Distribution Center.

The sun beat down heavily on his head as he slowly walked towards _The World_ headquarters. With every step he took closer to his destination, the rock in the pit of his stomach grew heavier. He was almost glad that he didn't have his glasses; that way, he wouldn't be able to see the looks of disgust on all of his friends' faces. The only thing he could think of that he wanted more than to be out of this mess was to see Bumlets again.

As he thought of Bumlets' face the previous night, of Bumlets' hands touching him, he almost smiled. Almost. But before his lips could even begin to curl upwards, he bumped into someone right outside the Distribution Center and almost fell.

Regaining his balance, he said, "Sorry." He blinked hard, trying to see who he'd collided with. He squinted, and as the face staring at him began to come into focus, the apologetic grimace fell away from his face.

Itey was staring at him with an uncharacteristically cold look on his face. Squirming under Itey's glare, the blood began to rise to the back of Dutchy's neck.

"Itey," he said nervously, "I know what you'se prob'ly thinkin', but if you'd jus' let me explain..." He gazed at the dark-haired boy with a feeling of doomed hope.

"I don' think I want to hear anythin' _you_ have to say," Itey replied, crossing his arms.

As Dutchy stared at Itey, feeling his stomach sink into a location right around his feet, another boy came up and stood next to Itey. It was Mush, and he had an expression on his face that Dutchy had never seen him wear before. Rage. Not even when Jack had turned scab had Mush looked so angry.

"What're _you_ doin' here?" Mush asked.

"I—I—I—" Dutchy stammered. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I came to…to sell papes…and to…see you guys."

"Didja stop to think that maybe _we_ didn't want to see you?" Mush replied. His boyish features were hardened.

Dutchy bit his lip hard, only stopping when the salty tang of blood touched his tongue. "I…did, Mush, but I—"

"Then go away," Itey interrupted. "You ain't one of us no more." He paused, giving Dutchy a few seconds to absorb that before he added, "_Real_ newsies look out for each other. They don't lie and hurt each other."

It hurt. Oh god, how it hurt. He was once again outside, alone, while his family went to their destiny without him. They didn't need him and they didn't want him. They just wanted him to go away. Dutchy clenched his fists, his dirty nails digging into his palms. Alone. All alone. It felt like a twisting in his heart.

"Fine," he whispered, his voice a thread of pain. "I'se gonna get my papes, then I'll go."

He didn't look up at the two of them as he passed them. He couldn't. All he could do was take one step in front of the other, his back straight, but his head bowed. As he entered the Distribution Yard, it fell silent. Though he couldn't see details, Dutchy was fully aware of the ovals of the newsies' faces staring at him. He probably shouldn't have bothered buying papers today, especially since he sensed the anger and potential for violence all around him. It didn't matter, though. At this point, he would welcome another soaking. What was the point in being well and healthy if he was all alone and nobody cared? What was the point?

He trudged up the ramp to the window, angry mutters all around him. Boys quickly moved out of his path, as though touching him would contaminate them. Shoving the quarter towards the Distributor, he mumbled, "Fifty, please."

The newspapers were handed to him in silence. He picked them up, his tired body staggering under the weight. Every muscle aching and heavy as lead, Dutchy turned back to the gate and walked down the path that opened for him through the midst of his former friends.

He counted his steps. Ten, fifteen, twenty. He was out of the gate, and no one stopped him. Another thirty. He was around the corner and out of sight. Fifty more. He was in a small, shaded alley. Slowly, as though they would break, he placed the newspapers on the ground, sat down heavily, and gave in to the shakes that wanted to overtake his entire body.

His head in his hands, his mind a terrifying blank, Dutchy sat alone, shaking as though he were freezing to death. Passersby stared at him, whispering to each other, but nobody stopped or spoke to him. And really, that was all right with him. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die; better that than having to face the contempt and hatred. Better that than to live, not knowing where Bumlets was, or if he was all right.

_Bumlets was reaching out to him, screaming, as he was dragged away by the clowns._

"No," Dutchy whimpered. "_No_."

_Bumlets was yelling that he'd been an idiot to put his life in Dutchy's hands. His sweet face was twisted into a mask of hate and pain as the clowns punched and stabbed. Blood flew._

"It ain't real!"

_Dutchy and Bumlets were kissing. When Dutchy's lips touched Bumlets', he tasted the blood. Slowly, Bumlets' hands drifted up to Dutchy's neck. They encircled it lovingly. With a look of sadness on his face, Bumlets tightened his hands around Dutchy's neck and began to choke the life from him._

Dutchy brought his hands to his throat, unaware that he was gasping for air. He squeezed his eyes closed.

_Dutchy was standing outside his family's house, watching it burn, but this time, Bumlets was there too. Bumlets calmly turned to Dutchy as though to ask a question over the screams from inside. Before Bumlets could speak, though, Dutchy shoved him forward as hard as he could. As Bumlets stumbled forward, he craned his neck around to stare at Dutchy uncomprehendingly. Realizing what he'd done, Dutchy reached out, to try to grab Bumlets, but it was too late. Bumlets tumbled into the flames and disappeared without even a cry of shock._

"He ain't dead," Dutchy moaned, his good eye wide open in shock. "He's all right, he's all right…"

_Racetrack was standing next to him now. Dutchy couldn't look at him. His hands were still outstretched, as though to grab Bumlets and deliver him from fiery death._

_"It's all your fault," Racetrack commented pleasantly. "You know that."_

"It ain't!"

_"It is. All of it."_

"All of it?" Dutchy whispered. His hands clasped each other. "All of it. It's all my fault. All of it. All of it. All of it. My fault."

He rocked back and forth, repeating the words to himself. It was all his fault. He was no longer aware of people around him. All that mattered was that it was his fault, his fault, _his fault_. He was a failure. He'd failed everyone who cared about him, who needed him. They were all gone, and they didn't want him anymore. Nobody did.

The hours passed, but Dutchy couldn't move. He sat, rocking, eyes fixed on some invisible point, trapped in a nightmare of his own making. Failing, failed, failure. He was a failure, and he was alone. If he sat in this spot until he died, no one would care. No one would come to see him, no one would take care of him. No one would touch him until he was a stinking corpse, and no one would touch him then anyway. He could waste away right here and people would simply sniff and step over his emaciated body.

It would probably be for the best anyway. One less poor boy to pollute the city. One less boy with a sad story. One less boy to mess everything up and fail and make everyone hate him.

Slowly, so slowly, Dutchy's body began to lean to the side. It was so gradual that he didn't even notice. He just sat and rocked and leaned. Finally, his body couldn't stay sitting up anymore. He didn't even wince as he landed on his side, and his head bounced against the ground hard enough for him to see stars whirling behind his eyes. One hand reached out, searching for something, but there was nothing there. His blank eyes focused on his hand, and there he lay, silent and still.

……

It was cold.

That was the first thing he noted as he began to emerge from wherever it was he had been.

It was cold all around him, and he was shivering.

He coughed and blinked, his eyelids sliding roughly over his burning eyes. On his left side, there was a sudden pink blur that moved to bend over him. It gestured at him wildly, and he vaguely figured that it was trying to say something to him, but he couldn't hear a thing.

He knew that something was wrong, but he was too tired to try to remember what it was. Every last ounce of energy and hope had been leached out of him, and he lay quietly, nothing more than a blond rag doll.

Again closing his eyes to the figure that was trying to communicate with him, he sighed and let the warm darkness again envelop him.

……

The next time consciousness returned, his head almost immediately felt a little clearer. Opening his eyes, he again saw the same pink blur sitting next to him.

He made a sound somewhere between a moan and a question. The noise rattled oddly in his head.

"Dutchy?" the pink blur asked quietly. "Can you hear me?"

He frowned. Much was still very fuzzy in his head, but he was sure of one thing. "My name…ain't Dutchy," he croaked.

"What are you talking about?" the blur asked in concern. When he concentrated, he remembered that her name was Medda, and that she had always been kind to him. "I've known you for six years, and I've never called you anything else."

"I ain't Dutchy," he repeated, his voice slightly stronger. "Not…not anymore. My name's Kristoff."

Medda sighed, and brushed the shaggy hair back from his forehead. "All right. If you want to be called Kristoff, Kristoff it is. How are you feeling?"

"Not good." He let his eyes drift closed against the harsh light. "Where am I?"

"You're at Irving Hall." She paused, as if reluctant to tell him more. "You've been here for over a week."

"A week?" He frowned. How could that be? Last thing he remembered… Searching his brain, he found with a twinge of pain that he remembered being cast out by the newsies, but after that…nothing. Had he been soaked? "What…?"

Medda understood. "I don't know exactly what happened, Du—Kristoff. A week ago yesterday, Jack showed up, dragging you. He asked me to look after you."

"Jack?" Now _that_ got his attention. "Why would the Cowboy do that? They all hate me." How bleak those words were.

"They don't hate you," she said softly. "They were just hurt, Kristoff."

"They told me I wasn't one of them no more," he replied, eyes still closed against the pity in her face.

"Friends do and say silly things sometimes in anger, but they forgive each other."

"Why should I believe you?" he asked, bringing one limp hand up to rest atop his eyes.

"If Jack didn't care about you, he wouldn't have come to visit you every day while you were here. I suppose you don't remember any of this, but he talked to you and told you to feel better and to come back." Medda leaned a little closer. "…Where _were_ you?"

"I was…" He frowned, trying to make sense of her words. Medda wasn't a liar, but he didn't believe her for one second that he'd been forgiven. "I was…I don't know." He licked parched lips. "Jack really…came here?"

The blob that was her face bobbed up and down in a nod. "Not only that, but Specs came too."

"…Huh?"

"Apparently, he talked to Kloppman, who figured that you might be wanting these." She reached out and picked something up from a table. He gaped uncomprehendingly until she set the glasses on his face and the world suddenly became crystal clear.

"Are these…" He cleared his throat, which was suddenly suspiciously clogged. "Are these new glasses?"

"Of course." Now that he could actually see her clearly, he saw the lines of exhaustion on her face. Guiltily, he realized that she must have been staying awake all this time to keep an eye on him. "Now tell me. What is your name?"

"I…" He sniffled miserably. "I don't know."

Before she could say anything comforting, there was a soft knock at the door. He twisted his head nervously to see who it was, and gaped as Jack entered the room, clearly ill-at-ease.

"Hey, Medda," Jack said, shifting his weight from one foot to another, "how's he doin'?"

"You can ask him yourself, Kelly," she said, but her tone was gentle. "He woke up."

Jack looked down at him, his brown eyes filled with trepidation. Slowly, he walked over to the cot and sat down next to Medda.

"Hey, Dutchy," he said softly. "How're you feelin'?"

He didn't feel like being honest, so he asked a question of his own instead. "What happened to me?"

"I don't really know." Jack rubbed the back of his neck. "I was getting' ready to sell my papes, and I saw you sittin' on the street corner, and you was…" He shook his head. "You was actin' real strange. Kinda rockin' back an' forth and mutterin' to yourself. I tried to talk to you, but it was like you didn't even see I was there. An' then you kinda fell over and…" He gestured. "Well, you didn't move. I was scared, so I brought you here."

"Why didn't you leave me there?" The words came out more flatly than he'd intended.

Jack gaped down at him. "_Leave_ you? You could've gotten hurt!"

"You ain't gotta take care of me no more, Jack," he said bitterly. "I ain't a newsie no more. They said so."

"_What_? Who said that?" Jack exclaimed. Before he could respond, Jack continued, "You'se still one of us, an' you always will be."

"But…" he stammered. "But…you said…"

Jack shrugged. "I say lots of things when I'se cheesed off, Dutchy. And I'se still kinda steamed, but I'se also been real worried 'bout you."

"What about Bumlets? You worried about him too?" he asked sharply.

"'Course I am," Jack said. "But the difference is that I know you'se here, an' I can check on you. No one knows where Bumlets is yet."

He nodded, biting his lip. "And the others? They still steamed?"

"Yeah," Jack said. "Most of 'em's still steamed, but that's just 'cause they'se worried."

"See, Dutchy?" Medda broke in warmly. "They care about you. And they'll forgive you."

Jack seemed to comprehend the importance of this point. "Dutchy," he said urgently, "I ain't never been so scared as I was when I saw you fall an' not get up again. I didn't know what had happened, and I couldn't fix it. You'se real dumb sometimes, but you'se still my _friend_."

"Can I…" The words stuck in his throat. "Can I be alone for a minute?"

After Jack and Medda quietly left the room, closing the door behind them, Dutchy stared at the ceiling, trying to force back the tears that were flooding his eyes. He would be forgiven, or so Jack said. Maybe he'd even be able to go back to the Lodging House soon. And maybe he could find Bumlets. The odds weren't great, but it was possible.

Maybe his life wasn't over after all.

Worn out, he closed his eyes and slept again, but this time, he knew that he would wake up again, and he drifted off with a whisper of hope in his heart.

And perhaps he smiled. Just a little.


	7. seven

Despite Jack's unexpected kindness, Dutchy's life didn't improve much over the days that followed. It took him two full days after Jack's visit to convince Medda to let him out of bed, much less out the door of the theatre, and though he certainly would never have admitted it, he was always slightly relieved when Medda flat-out told him that he wasn't allowed to go anywhere.

"You've been through a lot, and right now we just want you to get better," she would say. He wouldn't voice his concern, but he wanted desperately to know exactly of whom "_we_" consisted.

During that time, when he wasn't busy arguing with Medda, he lay in bed, stared at the ceiling, and thought. He didn't always think about anything in particular, but just let random thoughts drift in and out of his head. Any time memories of his family tried to intrude, he hurriedly pushed them away. After everything that had happened, he was scared to even _think_ of them.

No matter how he tried, though, he couldn't stop himself from thinking about Bumlets, from worrying about him. Where would Bumlets have gone after leaving the theatre? Where _could_ he have gone? If Bumlets was right about how the clowns were worse than the mob, they must have spies all over the city. Was there anywhere Bumlets could be that was safe?

At this point, Dutchy would flip over with a despairing groan and punch the pillow, trying desperately to keep his composure.

After all, Bumlets was smart. He'd managed to stay ahead of the clowns for a while – until Dutchy had stuck his big fat nose in, that is. Surely he'd be all right. He was quick, he could fight, he could hide… _And he's much better off without you_, Dutchy would think darkly to himself. _Everyone is._

Despite the hours Dutchy spent convincing himself that Bumlets was fine and in hiding somewhere, and that he would come back when it was all over with, in the end he was left with one thought: that he didn't know for sure. _If he's safe, he's probably never coming back to let you know. And if he's not…_

He must have had this argument with himself hundreds of times during those lonely hours. It was all he could do.

It was evening when Jack finally came back, though Dutchy couldn't have said for sure how many days had passed. What he _did_ know was that he was desperate to talk to another boy, so when Jack's confident knock sounded on the door, Dutchy didn't hesitate for even a second before calling out, "Come in!"

"Hey, Dutchy," Jack said, slipping quietly through the door. "How're you feelin'?"

Dutchy shrugged. How he was feeling was a very complicated story. "Been better. You, Cowboy?"

"Not bad." Jack paused, then sat down in a nearby chair. "You feel good enough to talk?"

"What're we doin' now, then?"

"I mean, actually _talk_. About what happened."

Dutchy could actually feel the blood draining from his face, though he hoped it wasn't visible to Jack. "I guess so."

Jack sighed. Apparently Dutchy wasn't so very fair-skinned that it wasn't obvious when he went pale. "I don't want to make you go all crazy again, Dutchy, so if you ain't feelin' up to it, ya gotta let me know."

"No," Dutchy said through stiff lips, "I can do it. Go… go ahead."

Jack lowered his head, his brown hair obscuring his face, apparently trying to figure out where to start. Dutchy waited, only the whiteness of his knuckles where his hands clenched the blankets betraying his dread of what was coming next.

"What I can't figure," Jack finally began, "is why you lied to _us_. I can get why you lied to the clowns, 'course, but why would you try to make us all think…?"

"I was just tryin' to _help_—" Dutchy began automatically, but Jack cut him off.

"I know you was tryin' to help Bumlets somehow, but I just don't know how."

Dutchy gestured helplessly. "In order to get the clowns to believe it, it had to be believable."

"You coulda told—"

This time, Dutchy cut Jack off. "No, I couldn't. You really think all of our boys coulda pulled off acting like their friend was dead? Every last one?" He paused. "How about Boots, Jack? Could Boots have done it? Or Les? Or even Mush?" He shook his head. "Jack, in your life, you've lost someone you cared about. I remember them sayin' in the courthouse that your Ma's dead and your Dad's in prison. So tell me, is it something you can _fake_? That feeling of gettin' all the breath knocked outta you, the shock and – and feelin' like you ain't never gonna be happy again? Can you fake the fear of what's gonna happen to you now, alone in the world? The prayin' that it's all just a nightmare, that it ain't real, that you'se gonna wake up any second, warm in your bed, with your parents there to protect you from the dark? Could – could you, Jack? And more than that, could the others?"

Jack stared at Dutchy in silence for a moment. "Where'd _that_ come from? No," he corrected himself, "where'd _you_ come from? You ain't never said how you wound up a newsie…What happened to you?"

Dutchy stared down at his hands, still gripping the sheets tightly. "Nothing that ain't happened to a hundred 'nother boys," he mumbled. "That ain't the point."

There was another silence, then Jack shrugged. "You'se right, that ain't the point. And – and you'se also right about the other thing. It ain't somethin' you can fake. I… I guess I was wrong."

Dutchy shook his head. "No, I shoulda come to you guys. I mean, maybe you'se guys coulda come up with a better plan than I did. I shoulda. I just didn't know how much time we had." He let out a long, forlorn sigh. "I tried to do the right thing, and ended up hurtin' everyone. And now I don't even know where he is or if he's all right."

"We'se gonna find him. I don't know how, but we will. He's one of us, after all."

"I hope you'se right," Dutchy muttered.

"'Course I am. But," Jack grinned lopsidedly at Dutchy, "how do you expect to get anything done from _there_?"

Dutchy looked around at the green room that had become his sanctuary. "I dunno, Jack. The rest of the guys, they still hate my guts."

Jack shrugged nonchalantly. "They'se gonna get over it sooner or later. Heck, _I_ did. And if they don't, soak 'em till they get the point."

"I ain't so sure about all t—" Dutchy froze as a new thought occurred to him. "Jack – Cowboy – the clowns!"

"Huh?"

"They threatened, right? They said they was gonna come back for all of us."

"Well, nothing's happened yet. And in any case, I reckon us newsies can take care of ourselves. We took on Pulitzer, remember? How's a couple of clowns gonna do anything?"

Dutchy shook his head. "Jack, just cause they'se clowns doesn't mean they'se harmless. When you and Race came that night, they was about to kill Bumlets."

"Yeah, and we sent 'em packing, didn't we?"

Grabbing Jack's wrist, Dutchy squeezed it hard, willing Jack to listen. "Listen, Jack, you ain't heard the whole story here. You don't know _why_ the clowns is going after Bumlets. But they'se real angry. And they'se got guns. Jack, they want to _kill_ Bumlets. You think they'd care 'bout wasting a bullet or two on any of _us_?"

Dutchy's desperate words finally seemed to penetrate Jack's confidence. Up until then, he must have thought of it as nothing more than small beans, a little feud, nothing to worry about. Now, however, the look in Dutchy's eyes told Jack that he'd better think again and do it quickly.

"Okay," Jack said slowly, sounding stunned. "Start from the beginning, Dutchy, and tell me the truth. The _whole_ truth."

And so Dutchy was obliged to go through the story yet another time. As with before, though, he left out certain details. He told Jack that he had a nightmare about his family, but didn't elaborate or describe any of it. He told Jack about his desire to tell Bumlets that his family had been found, but he didn't mention why he was so eager that it couldn't have waited till morning. And of course, he told Jack that he ran to the theatre to tell Bumlets everything… but he left out what had transpired there before the clowns showed up.

Jack, at least, was a good listener. He sat quietly during Dutchy's sometimes stumbling explanations and rambling descriptions of unimportant details. If he suspected that there was anything Dutchy wasn't telling him, he certainly didn't mention it. At the end of the story, he leaned back, looking almost as exhausted as Dutchy felt.

"So… the clowns want to kill Bumlets 'cause they think he killed a friend of theirs."

"Right."

"And they tricked you into coming here by telling you that they'd found his family."

"Y—yeah."

After muttering, "Somethin' ain't right here," Jack pursed his lips, deep in thought. Dutchy shifted nervously, unsure as to what exactly Jack could be thinking that required _that_ look on his face. After a moment, he was thinking about coughing or clearing his throat, or something to get Jack's attention again, but before he could, Jack seemed to snap back to attention.

"Dutchy," he said urgently, "do you think Bumlets would've told the clowns 'bout his family?"

"_What_?"

"I mean, even before the whole thing with the dead clown. Do you think he would've?"

"N—no," Dutchy said firmly. "Bumlets ain't the type to go 'round tellin' his secrets to just _anybody_."

That seemed to make up Jack's mind. He stood up quickly. "C'mon, Dutchy, we gotta go."

"_What?_"

"We gotta get back to the Lodging House. Now."

"But – but I –"

Jack motioned for silence in a no-nonsense fashion. "Listen, we got _one_ newsie missin' and that's more than enough. I ain't takin' any chances here. Come _on_."

He shepherded Dutchy out of bed and pushed him straight out the door, despite Dutchy's protestations.

"But Medda's gonna be worried—"

"_Hang_ Medda."

"_Jack_!"

"I'll go back an' explain to her later, but right now, this is more important."

Blinking in the reddish light of sunset, the city street rough against his bare feet, Dutchy snapped, "_What's_ more important? Jack, what's goin' _on_?"

As they hurried along a side street, Jack said in a rough voice, "You said that the clown who came up to you and Race knew about Bumlets' family."

"Yeah…"

"But Bumlets ain't the type to tell just _anyone_ about his family, you also said."

"Right…"

"Dutchy, use your damn head!"

Dutchy blinked, trying to figure out what Jack was talking about.

Jack sighed in frustration. "He told _you_ 'bout his family, didn't he?"

"Yeah, he –" Dutchy gasped, the implications finally becoming clear to him. All those hours spent doing nothing but going over what had happened, and this hadn't even _occurred_ to him. "He told me – that afternoon – in – Jack, are you sayin –"

Jack nodded curtly. "That's exactly what I'm sayin'. That afternoon in the Lodging House, there was someone else there. Besides you. Besides Bumlets. And he heard every word."

"So…" Dutchy gestured worriedly, not wanting to believe the picture Jack was painting. "So… maybe one of the clowns snuck in an' heard us talkin', right? I don't see why we gotta run—"

"Wake up, Dutchy. You know Kloppman. He don't let _nobody_ in who ain't a newsie, and he guards the entrances like a _hawk_."

"Jack, I—"

"There's only one explanation." Jack shook his head grimly. "Another newsie was in there that day, and he told the clowns everything. One of us is a spy."

Stunned to silence, Dutchy didn't bother to say anything else on the hurried walk back to the Lodging House. One of them, a spy? How could it be? _Who_ could it be? Even though Dutchy counted very few of them as close friends, he was – or had been, at least – friendly with almost everyone, and could no more imagine anyone he knew betraying Bumlets to the clowns for money than he could imagine betraying Bumlets himself. But clearly, somehow, it had happened. Unless Dutchy really didn't know Bumlets at all, and he very much doubted that, someone else had to have told the clowns about Bumlets' missing family.

_Had_ someone else been in the bunk room that day? Dutchy furrowed his brow. Though he could remember every smile Bumlets had shot him that day, he couldn't remember anyone else in there, any huddled shapes on a bunk, any sound of someone else breathing.

But there must have been. Because Dutchy certainly hadn't told the clowns, and if _he_ hadn't, it must have been _someone_.

"Jack," he piped up, "what are you plannin' to do? You ain't gonna tell them – "

"Of course I can't!" Jack snapped. "If I let on that I know someone is a double-crosser, they'se gonna go runnin' straight to the clowns."

"So, what, then?"

"Just do me a favor, Dutchy? Keep your mouth shut. For once. And trust me."

As they hurried into the Lodging House, Jack turned and gave Dutchy a reassuring smile. For his part, Dutchy was not comforted in the least.

"Cowboy," Kloppman greeted Jack, then stared at Dutchy for a moment. "So you found your way back after all."

Dutchy shrugged nervously. "I – thank you for the glasses." He shot a teeny smile at Kloppman, whose wrinkly face crinkled into a smile.

"Of course. I can't have you boys running around blind, can I?"

"Kloppman," Jack broke in, "sorry to interrupt, but is all the guys upstairs?"

The old man shrugged and nodded. "Far as I know. Are you going to have a singalong?"

Jack smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Something like that. Thanks."

Again he grabbed Dutchy and pulled him all the way upstairs. The bunk room was filled with boys, talking and laughing, but as they saw Jack, and especially who Jack was with, the room slowly began to quiet. Within a minute, the entire room was so quiet that the only sound to be heard was someone cracking his knuckles. Dutchy glanced at Racetrack, who shrugged back at him.

"Hey, guys," Jack said. "Listen, I gotta tell you all somethin'."

"Yeah," Pie Eater sneered from on top of his bunk. "You gotta tell us why you brought _him_ back."

"Shut it, Pie," Race snapped. "You ain't got no idea what you'se talkin' about."

"Hey," Snoddy said from his bunk next to Pie's, "we know all we need to know. _He_ lied to us. _He_ don't belong here no more."

"Well," Mush piped up from somewhere in the back, "I been thinkin', guys, and we don't really why he did it, do we? Shouldn't we—"

"Guys! _Be quiet_!" Jack yelled, and they immediately complied, though there was still an angry grumble traveling around the room. "He explained it to me, and he was right, okay? Dutchy was right and we was wrong, and if he feels like explainin' it to any of you'se guys, then he'll do that, but I don't wanna hear any of you givin' him a hard time about it. _Got_ it?" He glared at every single person in the room. A few faces still looked hardened and mutinous, but more curious glances were being directed in Dutchy's direction.

For his part, Dutchy didn't dare to look at any of them, but stared directly at the floor. Jack gave him a little push, shoving him into the middle of the room. Still carefully avoiding anyone's gaze, he shoved his hands in his pockets and hurried over to his bunk as quietly as he could. Lumpy it may have been, but he'd never been so happy to see that old mattress. He shot a glance up at the bunk above him, imagining that a dark-haired boy was sitting there, grinning back down at him.

"And I got somethin' else to say, guys," Jack was saying forcefully. "And this is real important. We got a sorta bad situation on our hands, and, I can't really explain it too much, but I want all of you'se guys to travel in groups, okay? Groups of three or more. No being by yourself, no being with just one other person. Three or more. Everyone understand?"

"Come on, Jack," Snitch called out. "You can't say that and not tell us anythin' of the _why_."

Dutchy glanced at Jack, wondering how he was going to satisfy the guys without telling them the truth.

Jack, apparently, had already thought that through. Without so much as a moment of hesitation to belie his words, he said, "Dutchy reminded me of somethin' I forgot. Those goons who were after Bumlets did threaten to come after all of us too, and they ain't kiddin' around. I don't want anyone 'round here to take _any_ chances. If there's at least three of you, than you got a chance of overpowerin' anyone who tries anything. Guys, just be safe, okay? And watch out for each other. Tell me if you see anythin' suspicious."

Shaking his head in amazement, Dutchy silently conceded that Jack was much smarter than he was. Again he felt a twinge of regret that he hadn't just gone to Jack in the first place when Bumlets had told him about the clowns, but it was too late for that.

"What about Bumlets?" a loud voice said from several bunks down. Dutchy didn't even bother to glance over; Kid Blink had a voice loud enough to stop a rampaging carriage, and it was every bit as distinctive as it was piercing.

"Yeah…" A general murmur ran through the room.

Jack looked over at Dutchy. "We ain't gonna give up. Keep on the lookout and again, let me know the _second_ you find something, but don't go lookin' for trouble." He nodded. "Okay. That's it. Have a fun evenin', guys." He strolled into the room and sat down next to Race, talking quietly.

Slowly, the volume of the room rose again, though the voices seemed much more hesitant and much more excited than before. Dutchy wasn't surprised; now they actually had something to talk _about_.

"Hey… Dutchy?"

He turned to stare at Mush, who was standing next to the bunk, gazing back earnestly at him.

"Mush…" he said hesitantly.

"Was it like when Jack turned scab?"

Dutchy blinked. "Huh?"

"What you – what you told us all." Mush ran a hand through his curly hair, looking embarrassed. "When Jack turned scab, it was 'cause he didn't have no other choice, right? 'Cause Pulitzer wanted to put Dave in the Refuge. What... Was it like that?"

"It… had nothin' to do with Dave…" Dutchy said hesitantly.

Mush laughed suddenly. "No, I meant, well, was it 'cause you had no choice?"

"_Oh_!" Dutchy exclaimed, blushing a dull red. "Oh, uh… I – Well, lookin' back, maybe I coulda done somethin' different, but – but at the time…"

Mush smiled, and the effect was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. "Okay, then."

Dutchy blinked in shock. "Huh? Wh – You'se forgivin' me? Just like that?"

"Well, I forgave Jack for turnin' scab, didn't I? It'd be kinda dumb of me to do differently for you." Mush smiled again. "Glad you'se back, Dutchy."

"I – thanks," Dutchy replied, still stunned.

"Oh! And…" Mush glanced around. "Don't worry too much. They'se all gonna come 'round sooner or later."

"Really?"

"People was worried when you was gone." Mush snorted. "They ain't gonna admit it, even to each other, but they was all worried not knowing where you was or even if you was okay." Dutchy was speechless, so Mush continued, "It wasn't till Specs brought back word that you was stayin' at Medda's that – Well, it was like, all the hard work they put into bein' nervous, then they switched over to bein' angry _'cause_ they'd been so nervous. Just remember that, okay?"

Dutchy nodded, so Mush nodded back and headed over to go talk to Kid Blink, who was still glancing over curiously.

Suddenly, Dutchy stood up and walked purposefully over to Jack and Racetrack, a half-formed impulse seething in his brain. Jack broke off in mid-sentence and looked up at Dutchy inquisitively.

"That – that 'three or more' thing…Does that count for me too?" Dutchy asked.

Jack nodded firmly. "Especially for you."

Dutchy protested, "But I ain't the – the –" He lowered his voice and finished, "—the spy."

"I know you ain't," Jack said calmly, "but the spy knows that you'se mixed up in all this, and so you'se in more danger of getting' in trouble than anyone else. What I told the guys about the clowns comin' after us – it wasn't a lie, it just wasn't the whole truth."

Dutchy sighed, frustrated. "_Fine_. Then will you two come with me?"

Race removed his cigar from his mouth and blew smoke upwards. "Where're you plannin' on goin'?"

"I – I need to take a walk."

"A _walk_," Jack repeated. "We'se all this close to getting' blown to bits by clowns, and _you_ want to go for a _walk_." He sighed unhappily.

"_Please_," Dutchy said simply. Jack and Racetrack glanced at each other, and Dutchy could sense them wavering, so to press his advantage, he added, "And in any case, you gotta stop by Medda's and tell her that I ain't been dragged off and killed by angry clowns." He had them then. Jack sighed, almost frustratedly.

"Fine," he said. "C'mon, Race. This ain't gonna take long, _right_, Dutchy?"

"Uh… I don't think so?"

One quick trip to Irving Hall and one incredibly relieved Medda later, Race turned to Dutchy and arched his eyebrow.

"Can we go home yet?"

"Not yet," Dutchy replied quietly. He looked around. It was nearly full night by now. "It's just a short walk from here."

"It better be," Jack grumbled.

In near total silence, Dutchy led his two friends on a walk down small alleyways and across large streets. As he'd said, it was a short walk; barely ten minutes later, he halted in front of an apartment building and looked up at it quietly.

Jack and Racetrack followed his gaze, and then looked at each other questioningly.

"Jack, what's he doin'?"

"Dunno, Race. Building's nothing special, huh?"

"Guys?" Both of them turned to see Dutchy looking at them, his eyes invisible behind his glasses. "Could you give me a couple minutes?"

Both boys shrugged, but obligingly moved backwards until they were on the other side of the street. Oddly comforted by their presence, Dutchy turned back to study the building.

Of course, it wasn't the same building. That building had burned right to the ground with his family inside, and the ashes hadn't smoldered for more than a few days before it was cleaned up and a new building was constructed in its place. Progress cared nothing for the lives that had been lost or for the one small boy who had been left behind.

For the longest time, Dutchy had told himself that he'd never go back to where it had happened, that he didn't even _remember_ where it had happened, but one day, when he had been about twelve, he'd taken the day off and gone hunting. The address ringing a bell in the depths of his subconscious, he'd simply sat there for a while and tried to feel if there were any memories left there for him, any trace of his family. He'd found nothing, of course, but tonight, there was no place else he could go for what he needed to do. This was the only place.

With a deep sigh, he sat down on the curb and looked steadily at the ground in front of him. "Hi, Mama, Papa. Hi, everyone. I ain't – ain't got too much time right now, so I guess I oughta make this quick. It's been a while, huh? But I guess you all wouldn't expect me to come visit a whole lot. After all, you ain't _actually_ here anymore." A pained grin appeared on his face. "Some American Dream we got, huh? You all _gone_ and me, sellin' papers to keep from starvin' in the gutters. It ain't your fault, though, and I ain't never blamed any of you. I… I miss you all." Dredging up the words from deep in his soul, so deep that they had almost been forgotten, he muttered, "_Ich vermisse sie allen und liebe sie allen_." Dutchy tilted his head back and stared at the sky to keep the tears in his eyes from spilling over. "I guess I oughta get to the point before I start cryin', huh?" He cleared his soggy throat. "For the longest time, I didn't think that I was ever gonna find anyone else to love me again, or anyone I could… love back. And I kept people from lovin' me, 'cause I was scared that the same thing was gonna happen again, that I was gonna be happy and then it was all gonna get taken away. I was never gonna let myself really care about anyone else, other than you all.

"But it happened, didn't it? I let myself care about… love someone else, and he got hurt 'cause of it. And I still don't know where he is. After it happened, I was so scared, so scared that I couldn't even move anymore. Because I thought it was all _my_ fault. That you all were gone 'cause of me, and that he was gone 'cause of me.

"I ain't gonna do that anymore, though. I ain't gonna keep not letting myself care about people because of _you_. You'se guys wouldn't want that, would you?" He sniffled and, lifting his glasses with one hand, dragged his sleeve across his eyes with the other. "I gotta let go of you. I gotta let go of all of it, otherwise I'se gonna be too scared to do what I gotta. But… But, Mama, Papa… I love him. I _love_ him. In a different way than I love you'se guys, but just as much. And I gotta save him. I can't do it if I'm still scared and if I'se still lettin' you'se guys and my memories hold me back. So I gotta let go of you all. I…" For a moment, his voice broke. "I love you all, but I gotta move on." Slowly, he stood up, still looking at the sky. "I ain't gonna be comin' back. Wish me luck."

Dutchy took a deep breath and walked across the street to Jack and Race. He was aware that his eyes were slightly red and teary, but he didn't care. When he spoke, his voice was calm and steady.

"Okay, guys. I'se ready now. Let's go."

…

**Author's Note:** Yeah. So it's been a while since I updated this. Um… whoops, I guess? And seriously, right now I am _angry_ at Jack for pointing out that there's a spy among the newsies. Because now, _I'm_ the one who has to figure out who it is, _why_ he did it, and how the hell I'm _ever_ going to have the others find him out. Stupid Jack. _:kicks at him:_

Oh! And as long as I'm writing self-indulgent author's notes, please allow me to plug "The Vtones," an awesomely funny and incredibly cute story co-written by myself and studentnumber24601. Don't let the mention of pop music put you off! Do you like Dutchy being pouty, Specs being sarcastic, and Bumlets being just plain _awesome_? Well, then, check it out!


	8. eight

Dutchy was free. Finally, after eleven long years of secret fears, he was free. He couldn't explain it; after all, it weren't as though he'd _actually_ been absolved for anything at all by his family. All he knew was that as Jack and Race followed him back to the Lodging House, shooting strange glances at both him and each other, he felt as though an enormous, crushing burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Had he not been so exhausted and so worried about Bumlets, he could have skipped. As it was, he walked, but there was a definite spring in his step that both Jack and Racetrack knew that they hadn't seen there before.

Finally, Race quickened his step to walk side-by-side with Dutchy. "Ah… Dutchy?"

"Yeah?"

"What… Well, if you don't mind me askin', what was _that_ all about?"

Dutchy glanced down at Racetrack, who looked genuinely puzzled. He was sure that behind them, Jack was listening intently too.

"I was just… just takin' care of something I should have taken care of a long time ago." He grinned tiredly. "It's all right, really."

Race nodded, though he still looked quite confused. He glanced back at Jack and said sardonically, "Why didn't we figure this out sooner? All we had to do to make Dutchy happy was let him talk to the buildings. Who knew?"

At that, Dutchy laughed. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd laughed.

"Yeah, Dutchy, why didn't you _tell_ us the buildings was your friends?" Jack grinned. "We didn't even get introduced."

"I wasn't—" Dutchy tried, then stopped and shrugged. Jack and Racetrack couldn't have known how important his "talk with the building" had been, and they were just trying to cheer him up. What good would it do to get offended? "Well, that was more of a 'good-bye' talk than a 'hello' talk, anyway." He paused. "Uh, guys? What now?"

"Huh?" Jack asked, also speeding up so he was now walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Dutchy.

"I mean, how do we… find Bumlets?" He didn't want to ruin his relatively good mood, but now that he'd made his peace with his family, Bumlets was the most important thing in his life.

Race sighed. "I guess we could spread the word to other newsies 'round the city? Get Brooklyn and Queens and all of the others out lookin' for him?"

"But not our guys," Jack cautioned. "We ain't gonna take the risk of havin' Bumlets be found by the spy."

"You _kiddin'_?" Race snorted. "You think you can stop 'em from lookin' for Bumlets? So why didja make that whole 'three or more' rule?"

"That was just… for general wanderin' 'round. Not for organizin' and searchin', okay?"

Dutchy put in, "But what if Bumlets is still in Manhattan? We ain't gonna just ignore _that_ possibility, right?"

Jack frowned. "I dunno, Dutchy. We'se gotta be careful 'bout this."

"Too careful, Jack," Race put in. He looked at Dutchy out of the corner of his eyes. "Why don't we just… talk 'bout this tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Dutchy muttered. "Yeah. Always gonna do it tomorrow."

"He's got a point, Dutchy," Jack said. "It's getting' late, you'se had a rough day, and…we'll just plan tomorrow, okay?"

"Fine." Dutchy crammed his hands in his pockets.

The rest of the walk was silent.

Upon arriving back at the Lodging House, Dutchy immediately crawled into bed. Most of the boys were still awake, but Dutchy didn't let that bother him. And in the end, it seemed like Jack had been right: though Dutchy couldn't stop thinking about Bumlets, he fell asleep within a few minutes.

And his dreams were quiet and not haunted by the shades of his family.

In fact, Dutchy slept peacefully right up until the point that he was unceremoniously poked in the shoulder. He scrunched up his face and turned over, ignoring the poke.

Then he was poked again.

And again.

Finally, with a frustrated, sleepy frown on his face, Dutchy rolled in the direction of the poker and squinted his eyes open. "_What_?" he snapped grouchily.

Race was kneeling next to his bed, looking at him intently. "You awake, Dutchy?"

"I am _now_," Dutchy snapped. "How could I sleep with _you_ jabbin' at me?"

"Sorry 'bout wakin' you," Race replied, but he sounded utterly unrepentant. "I just figured that this was the only time we could talk."

"It couldn't have waited till morning?" Dutchy asked.

"I wanted to talk to you 'bout Bumlets."

Dutchy hesitated, but only for a moment. "Let's talk outside." With the minimum amount of moaning and groaning, he rolled out of bed and shoved his glasses on his face. He followed Racetrack down the stairs, and as they had on that other night when they'd discussed Bumlets, they sat on the stairs right outside the Lodging House.

"You sure this is safe?" Dutchy asked, only half-joking. "After all, didn't Jack say 'three or more'?"

Racetrack responded by lighting up a cigar. "You ain't the spy and I ain't the spy. We'se sittin' on the steps of the Lodging House. I _think_ it's okay."

"Point," Dutchy nodded. "So, uh, what did you want to say?"

"You remember what I told ya?" Race blew a smoke ring into the air. "About Bumlets?"

"You told me lotsa things 'bout Bumlets, Race." Dutchy leaned back against his elbows, trying to look casual.

Race gestured. "Just being difficult now, ain'tcha, Dutchy? You know what I'm talking 'bout."

"Oh?"

"'Bout how he feels 'bout _you_."

"Oh, _that_."

"You know, I only told you that 'cause I thought he was dead."

"Yeah, I know," Dutchy said guiltily. "I couldn't let on that he wasn't, Race. I woulda stopped you otherwise."

"Yeah, yeah, I know that. But now that I know that Bumlets is alive… I wanna know what you'se gonna _do_ with the stuff I told ya. For instance… You ain't gonna make him feel weird 'bout it, right?"

"No!" Dutchy exclaimed. "I'd _never_ do that to him!"

"You sure? 'Cause… you was pretty shocked, as I remember."

"Yeah. Yeah, I was."

"So didja say anything about it to Bumlets when you went to go see him at the theatre?"

"Not…exactly," Dutchy hedged. "Not directly. He doesn't know that you said anythin' to me, okay?"

"What did you say?" Racetrack asked suspiciously.

"Nothin'!" Dutchy said, sitting up and folding his arms. "I didn't say _nothin'_ mean to him. I _care_ 'bout Bumlets!" Race eyed Dutchy out of the corner of his eye, but didn't say anything. Dutchy scowled. "I can't believe you think I'd be a jerk to him!"

"I didn't say that," Race replied calmly.

Dutchy wasn't done digging his hole, apparently. "Bumlets is a _great_ guy, you got that? He's nice and carin' and…and…" He trailed off, seeing the look that Racetrack was giving him. "_What_?"

Race waited only a second before letting a huge smile take over his face. "I _knew_ it! I knew it!" he crowed, his cigar dangling from his mouth, waving his arms in the air triumphantly. "_Ha_!"

"Shhhhh!" Dutchy hissed. "You'se gonna wake up all the guys! And… and knew _what_?"

Race quieted down, but didn't stop grinning like an idiot. "Quit playin' dumb, Dutchy. You ain't no genius, but you'se a lot smarter than you let on." He laughed out loud. "You and your 'I don't like _guys_!'" He glanced over slyly. "So how was it, Dutchy?"

"How was wh—" Dutchy froze, realizing what Race meant. He blushed a dull red. "We _didn't_!"

"Sure you didn't," Race replied, still smirking.

"No, there… wasn't time," Dutchy mumbled.

After a long sideways glance, Racetrack shrugged, apparently deciding that Dutchy was telling the truth. "Next time, I guess. Was it me?"

"Was – what you?" Dutchy asked. Racetrack wasn't usually _this_ confusing.

"That decided you. You said you didn't like boys, but clearly, you did some thinkin' and changed your mind."

"Shut up, Race."

Race held his hands up in mock-surrender. "Sorry, Dutchy."

"Why're _you_ so interested in what _I_ do, huh?"

Taking a long drag on his cigar, Race exhaled as he spoke. "I like to see my friends happy."

"And?" Dutchy looked at Racetrack over the edge of his glasses. "Why ain't you tellin' me that I'se disgusting for… for likin' another guy that way?"

Race's eyes sparkled merrily. "Why d'you _think_?"

Dutchy was aware that his mouth had fallen open, but he was too surprised to bother to close it. "You don't mean… Race, _you_ ain't… No. Can't be."

"Can be," Race confirmed. "Dutchy, you ain't the only one 'round here who's found that he likes guys."

"Really?" he asked in amazement. "Who – who else?"

"I'd like to tell ya, but I can't."

"Why not?"

"I keep secrets." Race took a final drag and stubbed out his cigar on the top stair. "Nobody likes goin' and havin' his personal life blabbed all over the place. If I'm told somethin' in confidence, I keep it that way."

"Ah." Dutchy paused. "Race, about – about me and Bumlets –"

Putting a finger to his lips, Racetrack grinned. "Don't worry. I'se assumin' this whole conversation's confidential."

"Yeah. Yeah, thanks," Dutchy confirmed. "Um…"

"Yeah?"

"What 'bout you, Race? You, uh, with anyone?" Race's eyebrows shot skyward. "I ain't – I mean – I'se just curious," Dutchy added hastily.

"'_With'_s a funny word, ain't it? Sorta am. Sorta ain't. Can't give out names."

"Gotcha," Dutchy replied, still curious, but accepting that he couldn't know. "Hey, Race, long as we're awake… Where should we start lookin' tomorrow?"

"For Bumlets?" Race grinned lopsidedly. "Well, I just kinda figured that you'd wanna go straight to the guy who's got sources all over the city."

"You mean, Spot Conlon?" Dutchy grimaced.

"You could go to Spot, I s'pose. _Or_, if you wanna make it through tomorrow without gettin' soaked… Well, I was gonna suggest Denton."

"_Denton_!" Dutchy exclaimed. "Of _course_." Climbing to his feet, Dutchy shook his head. Why hadn't he thought of Denton before? Not only did Denton have his eye out for anything happening around the city, he seemed to take any of the newsies' problems on automatically. Besides Medda and Kloppman, he was the best adult friend the newsies could have had.

He smiled at Race and, extending a hand, helped the shorter boy to his feet. "Let's get some sleep, okay? And," he added sternly, "if you wake me again, Race, I swear I'se gonna _soak_ you 'till you think right's left and aces are twos."

"Uh, Dutchy? Aces _are_—"

"Shut up, Race."

…

The next morning, Dutchy left the Lodging House with the other newsies. They were a fairly subdued lot, as opposed to their usual joking and clowning around. Most of them were still pretty quiet around him, but a couple others besides Mush had come up to him in apology. The way he figured it, besides Jack, Race, and Mush, he had five guys on his side: Kid Blink, Crutchy, Jake, David, and Skittery. It wasn't a bad start, he decided. Some of the guys would take longer to win back, but now that Dutchy knew that he wasn't alone, he felt like he could handle a bit of grumbling and maybe even a soaking. After all, he was pretty much all healed up from the fight with the clowns now… the few remaining bruises he had were yellowing.

He just hoped that Bumlets, wherever he was, didn't hate him. He _couldn't_, Dutchy told himself sternly. Even if… even if it was Dutchy's fault that Bumlets had been discovered and had had to cheese it. Maybe he was mad – he had a right to be mad – but he couldn't hate Dutchy. He couldn't _hate_ him, not knowing how Dutchy felt.

Or so Dutchy prayed.

The temptation to just slip away from the horde of boys and run off to find Denton immediately was nearly overwhelming. He managed to stop himself, though, by reminding himself that he didn't want to make Jack angry. Not now, not so soon after getting back into good graces, back into the Lodging House. All the same, how could he care about selling papes with Bumlets out there somewhere, lost and alone?

Dutchy slowed his step until he was walking next to David and Jack, who were laughing over some private joke.

"Uh… guys?" he asked.

"What is it _now_, Dutchy?" Jack asked, looking put-out at having been interrupted.

"Be nice, Jack," David scolded him gently. "What is it, Dutchy?"

"I wanna go see Denton," Dutchy replied, aware that the others had quieted down, and that the eye of every newsie was on him. "And I think now'd be a good time."

Jack gestured towards the Distribution Yard. "But what 'bout _papes_, Dutchy?"

"What _'bout_ papes, Jack?"

Jack whistled. "Wasn't you the one who was always sayin' that he needed more an' more money?"

"Well, yeah…"

"How much money you got on you?"

Dutchy scowled. "I don't got nothin', Jack."

"_Nothin'_?" Jack whistled. "And how're you plannin' on _eatin'_ if you don't sell papes?"

"It ain't my fault!" Dutchy snapped. "I was _robbed_."

"Robbed?" David asked. "When? What happened?"

"Nothin'," Dutchy mumbled, embarrassed. "It was before this whole mess started."

"And you haven't saved up _anythin'_ since then?" Jack asked in amazement.

Dutchy glared at him.

"Jack," David cautioned, "Dutchy hasn't exactly had a much of a _chance_ since then…"

"Oh. Right." Jack paused. "Still, Dutchy… We'se your friends and we'll help you out… but you gotta make some money for yourself. Guys ain't gonna loan to you if you can't pay 'em back."

"Bumlets did," Dutchy said softly.

"Yeah, well, Bumlets ain't…" Jack trailed off, looking as though he very much regretted opening his mouth.

"…ain't here," Dutchy finished disgustedly. "And that's why I don't give a damn 'bout papes right now, Jack. Because Bumlets is my friend, and I ain't gonna be able to concentrate on selling a single damn pape until he's back." He stared straight ahead, not looking at Jack or David.

Finally, David said tentatively, "Jack, he's right. It's not like it's all that far to Denton's place. We stopped selling papes for the strike, but are we going to keep selling with one of our friends missing?"

Probably still ashamed of what he'd almost said, Jack muttered, "Fine. The three of us can make a real quick stop at Denton's, I guess. But that's it."

Dutchy opened his mouth to reply, but Blink, walking in front of him, beat him to it. "That's all well an' good for the three of you," he said loudly, "but what 'bout the rest of us?"

"You guys has gotta sell papes," Jack replied firmly.

And suddenly Dutchy understood the tension that had been bubbling under the surface all that morning: everyone was worried and everyone wanted to do his part to help find Bumlets. One glance at the faces around him, and he knew which side he was on.

"Jack, the guys wanna help," he said.

"We got a job to do," Jack snapped, "and we can't all be runnin' around without any idea of what we'se doing!" He glared at Dutchy.

"Come on, Jack," Snoddy chimed in, "you gotta let us do _somethin'_."

"Yeah," Skittery added. "Bumlets is our _friend_."

One by one, all of the others spoke up.

"Can't stop us, Jack."

"Might as well let us."

"He'd do the same for us."

"Yeah."

"We'se gonna help one way or 'nother."

"Yeah."

"But –" Jack scowled and spoke so low that only Dutchy and David could hear him. "But what 'bout the…" He trailed off, but Dutchy knew right away what he was talking about.

"That's why we got the 'three or more' rule," he muttered back. "Jack… you can't stop 'em."

"Yeah, can't stop us."

"I ain't plannin' on sellin' papes today anyway."

"We gotta find Bumlets."

"_Fine_!" Jack yelled. "Fine. If you'se all so determined to skip out on work today – "

"Today _nothin'_!" Swifty yelled. "I ain't workin' till we _find_ him!"

Racetrack, who was behind Jack, whispered in his ear, "You'd best send some guys to tell the other newsies, and let the others look."

"I don't like this," Jack replied.

"You'se in charge," Racetrack replied, "but the rest of the guys still have wills of their own. Best you can do is tell 'em to be safe and send 'em on their way."

"Right," Jack said through clenched teeth. "You guys figure out who's gonna go and tell the newsies in the rest of the city, and who's gonna look 'round here. Remember, _three or more_. David, Dutchy… Come _on_. Let's go to Denton's."

Jack was sulking as the three of them hurried away from the busily talking crowd of newsies, but Dutchy felt as though he'd just won a major battle. Not without help, of course, he quickly amended, but in just a few short moments, all of the Manhattan newsies had been mobilized to look for Bumlets, and he'd had a lot to do with that. He knew that Jack was still worried about the spy, and to some extent, so was he, but the need to find Bumlets overrode all need for caution.

And so it was when they knocked on Denton's door and he opened it, Dutchy nearly pushed his way inside, turned to face Denton, and said simply, "We need help."

Denton didn't look nearly as surprised as Dutchy had expected him to. He simply nodded, waited till both Jack and David were inside, and shut the door calmly.

"I had the feeling that _something_ was going on," Denton said. "People have been acting strangely. I just didn't know what it was. So, what can I help with, boys?"

Dutchy was beginning to lose count of the number of times he'd told the story. _Add one_, he thought gloomily, then opened his mouth and straight into, "So Bumlets and I was hangin' around the Lodging House…"

As he talked, David and Jack both sat down at Denton's small table and whispered to each other. It would have irritated Dutchy, but he knew that they already knew the story, and so he just focused on telling the events to Denton as clearly as he could.

Denton nodded every now and again, and about halfway through the story, he grabbed a pen and a pad of paper, and started writing busily.

Dutchy paused in his recitation. "Denton – what're you doin'?"

"Taking notes."

"What, you gonna write an _article_?" Dutchy's eyes widened in horror.

"Not if you don't want me to," Denton replied evenly. "But in any case, taking notes helps me to remember details, which I'll need in order to be able to help. Please, continue."

So Dutchy resumed talking, but for the entire rest of the story, he kept one suspicious eye on Denton's busily scribbling hand.

"…and so we decided to come here," he finally finished. "'Cause you know people, and you might have an idea of what we oughta do."

"That's quite a story, boys," Denton replied, and he didn't sound the least bit condescending. "Really. It might not rival the sheer grandeur of the strike, but…"

"It ain't a story," Dutchy said harshly. "It's for real."

"Of course it is. Let me think for a moment." Sitting down, Denton rested his forehead against his hand and closed his eyes. Dutchy waited, holding his breath. Finally, Denton looked up again. "So the Manhattan boys are informing the rest of the city's newsies _and_ searching in Manhattan."

"Right."

"Well, I don't know if any of you boys would be up to doing this – "

"I'se up for _anything_," Dutchy said automatically, but Denton didn't bother to reply to that. He just kept talking.

"—but really, the only way to find out if the clowns have Bumlets is to go to the clowns."

"What?" Jack asked, suddenly paying attention again. "To do _what_?"

Denton nodded, still in his own world. "Yes. Someone should, at the very least, go to the circus and see how the clowns are acting. Are they satisfied? Frustrated? It'd be best if one of you could sneak somewhere where you can actually hear them talking, and listen to what they talk about."

"Are you _nuts_?" Jack exclaimed. "You tryin' to get us all killed?"

Denton shrugged. "I did say that I'm not sure that any of you are up for it. But the only way to know for sure is to get your information straight from the horse's mouth, as it were."

"I'm goin'," Dutchy said immediately.

"No, you ain't." Jack narrowed his eyes, always a sign that he wasn't about to budge.

But neither was Dutchy.

"Denton's right," he said. "We gotta find out from them."

"What if they see ya, Dutchy? What if you'se recognized, huh? You want the rest of us to go searchin' for ya?"

"If I stay in the crowd, they ain't gonna do a thing," Dutchy answered, still determined. "They'd get caught if they did."

"They'd follow you," David put in. "Wouldn't they? They'd wait till you were alone, and then…"

"Then I just won't be alone." Dutchy cocked an eyebrow at Jack and David.

"No," Jack said. "No. No no no no _no_."

"I'll go," David volunteered.

Jack looked fit to burst. "_Dave!_"

David shrugged. "They won't recognize _me_, Jack. I'll be careful."

"_We_," Dutchy corrected.

Sighing, David grinned wearily at Dutchy. "Just promise me you won't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Deal."

"_No!_" Jack snapped. "I don't agree to this!"

Denton spoke up. "If you guys want an adult with you…"

"Sure, thanks, Denton!" Dutchy exclaimed. "See, Jack? We'se gonna be fine. They ain't gonna try anything with a _reporter_ nearby."

"What if they don't know he's a reporter?" Jack countered.

"Jack, I admire your caution," Denton said, "but Dutchy has a point – they won't try anything in public."

"I don't like this," Jack grumbled.

But it was too late; it had been decided.

It was time for a trip to the circus.

…

**Author's Note:** I'm looking forward to writing the next chapter. A whole lot. And I'll leave it at that for now.

As always, thanks for reading!


	9. nine

As they strolled along the ever-more crowded streets towards the circus, Dutchy elbowed David and hissed, "He still followin' us?"

David casually glanced back over his shoulder and nodded. "Yeah. He's about three or four people back, trying to look like he's not unhappy about all this."

Dutchy shrugged. "We did tell him he didn't have to come with us."

On Dutchy's other side, Denton grinned that crooked grin of his. "You guys can't really blame him for worrying. He wants to make sure you stay safe."

"Hey, _you'se_ with us," Dutchy replied. "I don't see why Jack's got to worry. We'se with an adult, after all."

"An adult whose job it is to get himself into dangerous situations and make money off of writing about them later," Denton reminded him.

"And if things go wrong, it'll be good to have Jack nearby," David cautioned.

"Yeah, well, then why don't he just walk with us instead of starin' at my back? Ain't like none of us three don't see him," Dutchy said perversely. "Don't get me wrong, I like Jack, but he wasn't always such an old woman. When we was strikin', he was perfectly willin' to put us in danger. So why's this different?"

"Because he thinks we're being imprudent, possibly," Denton said. "We are, by the way."

Dutchy threw his hands in the air. "Then why'd you guys come with me? If you'se all so unhappy 'bout what we're doin', why'd you agree?"

"Because sometimes you have to do dumb things to get anything accomplished," David replied softly. "And at times, I think he worries so much about his friends that he forgets that."

Dutchy stared at David over the top of his glasses. "Didn't think I'd ever hear anything like that from _you_, Dave."

"I've learned a lot from all of you. And in any case," David drew nearer and lowered his voice, "Jack doesn't always see straight to the heart of the matter. He doesn't see how much you… Er…" He rubbed the back of his freckled neck, apparently trying to frame the words.

The meaning was perfectly clear enough to Dutchy who blanched and quickly glanced over to make sure that Denton hadn't heard them. Luckily, the crowds were now thick enough that unless they spoke at a normal volume, Denton hadn't – and wouldn't – notice. "You been talkin' to Race?" he whispered, already planning what he was going to do to Racetrack the next time he saw him. First he'd punch that smug, cigar-smoking face of his. And then…

He was so busy plotting revenge that he almost missed David's response.

"Racetrack? Talking to him about – No!" he exclaimed, still softly. "I didn't talk to anybody, Dutchy. I didn't need to. It's perfectly clear on your face. The way you talk about him – the way that you're as worried as if he were your… well, family, practically."

Dutchy could feel the back of his neck turning a dull red. "Great," he said heavily. "Anyone else know?"

David shrugged. "I have no idea. Like I said, I haven't talked to anyone about it – and I _won't_," he added firmly. "Don't worry about me blabbing."

"Thanks," Dutchy sighed, still feeling embarrassed.

"Guys, pay attention," Denton murmured over to them. "We're there."

Dutchy looked straight ahead. And then looked up. And up. And up. He gaped in awe, having never seen anything like this before. Sure, circuses had come to town before, but he'd never gone before; he'd never had a call to go before, or the money to buy a ticket.

The main tent was as large as any skyscraper he'd seen, and from this angle, a great deal wider. It seemed to stretch up, up, up into the sky, painted with red and white stripes. From inside, even over the crowds, he could hear the roar of an animal of some sort, and the terrifically loud voice of a man he supposed was the emcee.

The crowds surging around him, Dutchy grabbed nervously for David's sleeve. David glanced over him and laughed, though the laugh seemed to be a little shaky.

"Don't be afraid, Dutchy. It's just a circus. Hey, _Denton_!" he called louder. Dutchy swung his head around in time to see Denton fighting his way through the crowd over to what appeared to be the ticket booth.

"He can't hear us," Dutchy said, clutching more tightly to David's arm. Bravado or no, he didn't want to be separated from his friend in this crowd. "So, uh… what should we do?"

David craned his head around, apparently looking for something. "Let's move to the side of the tent. We'll get away from the crowd, and Denton can find us easier there. Come on."

Slowly, laboriously, the two boys fought their way through the mass of people, and finally, just when the sweating, surging crowd of faces and hands was really starting to make Dutchy uncomfortable, it thinned suddenly, and they found themselves away from the main thrust of the crowd. Dutchy took several deep breaths.

"Don't like crowds, huh, Dutchy?" David grinned at him, pale under his freckles.

"I guess not," Dutchy replied. After feeling as though he'd finally caught his breath, he glanced around curiously. They were very nearly on the far side of the main tent, and smaller tents surrounded them. "You really think Denton's gonna find us back here?"

"…Maybe this wasn't such a smart idea," David admitted. "Jack's still probably still back in that crowd, and he's angry that he lost us in it."

"Great," Dutchy muttered. "Even when it ain't me coming up with the plan, it still don't work. I think I'se cursed, Davey."

"You're not cursed," David scoffed. "We'll just have to… adjust the plan, I suppose."

"Well, neither of us has got the dough to buy tickets, and if Denton ain't gonna find us, we ain't gettin' in that tent."

"No, maybe not in _that_ tent," David said musingly. "But these other tents…"

"What're they for?"

"I would guess that they're a place for performers to get ready… to get dressed…"

"…to put their clown makeup on," Dutchy finished, the idea suddenly dawning on him. "You think the clowns're somewhere in these tents?"

David shrugged. "It's worth a shot, don't you think?"

"Okay," he said, working it all out in his head. "So, we'se gonna go and listen outside the tents and see if we can learn somethin', right?"

"Right."

"But we ain't splittin' up," Dutchy warned. "Right?"

"Right," David answered, nodded. "Pick a tent."

The first five tents they listened in at were less than useless. Three of them seemed to be empty – or if they weren't, their inhabitants weren't talking – one tent had a woman complaining to a sympathetic ear of some sort that the costumes she was given were horribly inappropriate for bare-back riding, and the last tent contained only a man who was moaning, though it was impossible to tell whether it was in pain or in pleasure. Both Dutchy and David hastened away from that last tent in embarrassment.

The sixth tent they tried, however, sounded a lot more promising. There were several men's voices talking all at once, and when finally, after a confusing moment, one voice spoke clearly, his words made David and Duchy both sit up and pay close attention.

"So, what you guys are telling me is that you've all searched high and low, and you can't find _one_ pathetic snot-nosed kid? Is that what you're saying?"

"Sorry," a nasally voice answered. "It's a big city… There's only so much we can do!"

"Yeah, and seeing as how we've only got a couple days more in town," a third voice said, also apologetically, "well, we maybe should give up."

"Give up?" the first voice snapped. "Have you forgotten what happened? You want to tell Bozo's ghost that we're _giving up_?"

A fourth voice spoke up, sounding rough and phlegmy. "You guys have to yell so loud? You woke me."

"Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn't be napping in here, huh?"

"Hey, I got a right to this tent, same as the rest of you."

"Guys, go easy on him," said the first voice. "He's new, remember? He doesn't know all the rules yet."

The rough voice coughed. "So what are we yelling about?"

"It's a long story. One of our friends was killed by a kid who tried to make money off of us over it. We found him nearby. We nearly had him, but he got away, and we don't have much time left."

The fourth voice was silent for a moment. "Oh. That's bad."

"Yeah."

"Certainly hope you find him."

Suddenly, the first voice laughed loudly. "You fell asleep in your makeup again, Buttons."

"Uh, yeah. Being a clown's hard work, and I… forget I have it on. Sorry, Duffer."

The first voice, apparently Duffer, laughed again. "I _love_ this kid." There was a sound of someone being kissed loudly on the forehead. "He's taken to the profession faster than anyone I ever knew. Yeah, faster than you, Gonzo."

The nasally voice snorted. "Yeah, well, you pay more attention to teaching him the ropes than you ever did to us."

"You questioning me?"

"N—no."

"Good. Buttons here reminds me of myself." Duffer sighed nostalgically. "Tough. Ruthless. Cutthroat."

Buttons laughed, though he coughed again in the middle of it. "Aw, shucks, don't flatter me."

"We'd better get ready to entertain the brats before the show. Get your baggy pants on, men."

Outside the tent, David poked at Dutchy. "Hey," he hissed. "Let's get out of here before they see us."

"Not yet!" Dutchy whispered back. "What if they say somethin' more?"

"We know that they don't have Bumlets. That's all we need to know for now!"

"O—okay," Dutchy responded hesitantly. He knew that David was right, and that they should get out of the way before the clowns emerged, but there was something nagging at him… He wasn't sure what it was, but it seemed like it was important.

All the same, he let David drag him back towards the big tent, going over what they'd heard in his mind. Suddenly, a huge smile spread over his face.

"Dave," he said, "they _don't_ have Bumlets! He got away!"

"Yeah," Dave nodded, "I said that already."

"But he got away from 'em! That means he's safe!"

Dave grinned, but still shrugged as they hurried.

Dutchy felt a little embarrassed. "I guess it just took me a second longer to get it," he said softly. "That he's safe. Wherever he is."

"It's okay, Dutchy," was David's response. "I know how you f—"

Before he could finish his thought, he was cut off by a wild yell as Jack hurried towards them, pushing his way through the crowd.

"_Hey!_ Where've you two _been_?" Jack yelled. "I been looking all over!"

Dutchy grabbed Jack's shoulders and _shhh_ed him, leaning in. "Jack," he muttered, "we found the clowns… or we heard 'em, anyway. They don't have him!"

Jack blinked, his mouth agape as the words worked their way through his head. "_Good_," he said finally, the conviction in his voice making Dutchy feel guilty for having been annoyed with him. "Can we, uh, scram now?" he continued.

David looked like he was on the verge of saying yes, but then he noticed Denton hurrying towards them, four tickets in his hand. "It would be a shame to waste Denton's money," he noted. "And it looks like he got a ticket for you too, Jack."

Jack frowned, but didn't say anything.

"Okay," Dutchy said, shrugging, though inside he wanted to go and scour the streets of Manhattan for Bumlets. "We came to the circus, we might as well…"

…

Several minutes later, Dutchy was regretting those words. The circus tent was hot, it was crowded, it was smelly, and to make matters worse and worse, it looked like the clowns were wandering separately through the crowd, doing tricks to entertain people before the show started.

"What now?" Jack asked, leaning over to Dutchy and David, still grumpy. "If they recognize us, there's gonna be big trouble."

"We can't get up and leave in a hurry," David replied, sounding worried. "That would draw attention to us – and then they'd notice us for sure."

"Well, you'se safe, Dave," Dutchy put in. "They ain't never seen you before. Cowboy, you'se probably all right too. They seen you from a distance, and during the fight, but never up close for long. But…" He trailed off.

"But they got a good look at _you_ when they followed you to Medda's," Jack finished grimly.

Denton had listened to their conversation quietly up until now. "So the solution is simple enough."

Three faces turned to look skeptically at him.

He shrugged. "We disguise Dutchy. Here," he continued, unbuttoning his suit coat. "You put on my coat and my hat. Slick your hair back so it doesn't stick out and… _voila_," he finished, dropping the hat on Dutchy's tousled head. "I doubt they'd be looking for any of you here, much less a young gentleman."

Dutchy adjusted his new ornaments uncomfortably. "Uh, thanks, Denton," he said. "I hope you'se right."

"I'd better be," Denton said, his eyes drawn elsewhere, "because here comes one now."

Swallowing nervously, Dutchy pulled the hat as low on his face as it would go and stared at the ground. He could still see a pair of feet in an overly large pair of shoes approaching. From the ball that dropped to the ground next to his feet, he judged that the clown was juggling.

In the hopes that the clown wouldn't lean down to grab the ball and catch a glance of his face, Dutchy reached down, picked up the ball, and held it out, waiting for a hand to snatch it away.

But it didn't happen. Instead, the clown let out what sounded like a strangled gasp, and several other balls dropped to the ground in front of Dutchy. At the same moment, David elbowed him in the side. Hard.

Almost against his will, fearing what he'd see when he looked up, Dutchy raised his eyes to look at the clown.

He took it in by pieces: the now-empty gloved hands that trembled at the clown's sides, the black hair that peeked out from beneath the ill-fitting hat, and the face, covered in grease paint, that had been staring at David, Jack, and Denton in amazement, and that now, slowly, fastened on Dutchy's face with a look of amazement and longing so tangible that it nearly took his breath away. He had only seen a look like that once before. It had been the look in Bumlets' eyes that night at Irving Hall.

Dutchy began to tremble himself. There was a roaring in his ears that wasn't coming from the crowd around him, but from the blood racing through his veins. "B—Bumlets?" he whispered, sure that the look in his eyes was the mirror of that in the dark eyes that stared down at him.

A shaky smile appeared on the painted face, but the clown didn't respond. He jerkily knelt down to gather up the balls he'd dropped upon seeing his friends. "Sorry," the clown said loudly, "but I don't know anyone named Bumlets. I go by Buttons. _Buttons_," he repeated strongly.

Dutchy blinked. It didn't sound quite like Bumlets. It was the rough, coughing voice that he'd heard in the tent. But it _was_ him. It _had_ to be. He opened his mouth to respond, but David elbowed him again.

"Of course," David said smoothly. "Buttons. Nice to meet you. New to this, aren't you?"

"Yes," the clown said, rising to his feet with the balls clenched to his chest. "Very new. Doubt I'll keep the job very long." White, even teeth flashed. "In fact, I doubt I'll have the job when the circus leaves town."

"B—Bu—Buttons," Dutchy stumbled over the words, "I…" He couldn't finish the sentence, though, and just kept staring at that beloved face, covered with paint and strange colors though it was.

Jack, showing once again why he was in charge of things, took over for him. "We'd like to hear more 'bout all of this when you got the time, _Buttons_." His quick eyes darted around, noting that a couple of the other clowns were looking in their direction curiously.

"Sure. Meet me at the far edge of tents after the show." The clown kept a smile on his face for the crowd, but the look in his eyes was all for Dutchy. "Gotta go – Got a job to do!"

He started juggling again, moving off through the stands, but he glanced back once, and for an instant, his eyes met Dutchy's.

And Dutchy, completely overcome by the shock, and by everything else that had happened since Bumlets had told him that he was being hunted by clowns, by all of the exhaustion, and all of the terror, and all of the anger and misery… Well, Dutchy did something that was perfectly understandable under the circumstances, but which he would never hear the end of from those who were with him.

Dutchy stood up on shaky legs, watched the boy he loved amble around the tent, juggling deftly for goggling children, and passed out cold.


	10. ten

Dutchy didn't stay unconscious for very long. He was jerked awake roughly by someone shaking his shoulder.

"Is he awake yet?" someone asked from above him.

"I don't think so. Did you bring the water?"

"Yeah."

"Water?" Dutchy muttered.

"Hey, guys, I think he's awa—" someone else started, but it was too late. A cascade of cold liquid hit Dutchy full in the face. He instinctively recoiled, then sat straight up, coughing and scrubbing at his dripping face.

"Knock it off," he gasped. "I'se _awake_." Gingerly, he drew his spectacles off his face and squinted down at them. "You guys coulda taken these off _before_ you threw water all over me, ya know."

Jack shrugged guiltily. "Sorry, we just wanted to wake you up before you attracted _too_ much attention."

"Attention?" Dutchy put his spectacles back on, and straining to see through the waterlogged lenses, noted that they were now outside the large tent, and that there was a small crowd of curious onlookers around. Despite the observers, Dutchy took a deep breath, happy to be out of the tent and back in the fresh air.

And more than happy, because now he remembered that he'd seen Bumlets, nearly spoken to him, and that soon, they were going to meet Bumlets out here. He grinned a little bit.

"How… how long was I out?" He looked around at David, Jack, and Denton, all kneeling around him.

Denton shrugged. "It wasn't very long. We told the people who were looking that you were afraid of crowds, and that it was too much for you—"

"—and then we took you outside." David looked around warily, shielding his eyes from the sun. "It seemed safest."

"Yeah, good plan," Dutchy muttered. "You mean… We still gotta wait through the whole show for – uh, for the meeting?"

"'Fraid so," Jack said, not without sympathy. "You wanna go watch the rest of it? The guy guardin' the entrance said that we could get back if in you wanted once you was awake."

Dutchy glanced towards the door of the tent, from where he could hear the roar of the crowd above the roar of some other sort of animal, and cleared his throat nervously. "Nah. I'd rather not. I mean, if it's all the same to you guys… I don't really wanna go back in there."

"Yeah," David agreed. "I don't think the circus is for me."

Jack looked down at the ground. "Oh… I actually kinda wanted to…"

The three boys looked at each other uncomfortably for a moment, but were saved from any decisions when Denton cleared his throat.

"If it's agreeable to all of you, Jack and I could go back inside for the rest of the show, while you two could relax out here, and then we could all meet up and go to find, er, Buttons right afterwards."

"Works for me."

"Sounds good."

"Yeah." Jack fixed Dutchy and David with a stern glare. "But don't wander off, you guys. I mean it."

David grinned. "_Relax_, Jack. We're not children."

Jack most definitely rolled his eyes skyward at that, but only smiled painfully and said, "Just… be careful," before climbing to his feet and heading back towards the main tent with Denton.

"Y'know," Dutchy muttered to David, "sometimes I really think that Jack think that we ain't able to take care of ourselves without him."

David scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. "Some of us are better able than others," he mumbled back, sounding slightly hesitant.

"What do you mean, Dave?"

"Nothing."

Dutchy stared unwaveringly at David. "C'mon. You meant _somethin_'."

"I really didn't."

"Then why'd you say it?"

"I – " David glanced over at Dutchy and sighed. "You're my friend and I like you, but, uh, you're… not very good at taking care of yourself."

Dutchy stiffened in instinctive indignation. "Hey!"

"I don't want to make you angry." David sighed. "But…" As he trailed off, he gestured helplessly.

It was very hard, but Dutchy was able to swallow his pride long enough to see David's point. "You'se… saying that I cause a lot of trouble, huh?"

"Well, only really _recently_."

"And that I ain't able to take care of myself." Dutchy looked around, trying to hide his hurt. "Not sure I agree with that."

"Well, Dutchy—"

"I just been having a really tough time lately, that's all."

"Why?"

Dutchy stared incredulously at David. "You _kidding_?"

"There's something other than Bumlets that's been bothering you." David glanced over at Dutchy. "At least, that's what it's seemed like."

"No, there ain't. Not – not anymore." Dutchy coughed uncomfortably. "I… I took care of it."

David leaned back and laid on the grass, staring up at the sky. Now that the crowd of onlookers had thinned out, they really had a quite pleasant little place to sit. "You never talk about yourself, you know that? Most of the rest of the guys, as soon as I start talking to them, they tell me where they came from, how they wound up at the Lodging House. Even the really bloody or really sad stories they don't mind telling. But not you. You just don't talk about where you came from, who you were… even who you really are." He paused, and seeming to sense Dutchy's discomfort, added, "Neither did Bumlets. I guess that's one thing you two have in common."

"What is?"

"You're both really private people. You don't _look_ it, Dutchy, but you're very closed-mouthed."

Dutchy pursed his lips. "Why does every single person suddenly want to know where I came from? For eleven years no one cares enough to ask my name, and now suddenly everyone's just _got_ to know."

David held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Whoa, whoa," he said quickly. "It's all right. You don't have to tell me. I was just mentioning that there was something on your mind other than Bumlets."

"Well, whether there is – or was – it ain't my story to tell to just _anybody_." Dutchy blew out a long breath. "I mean – it _is_ my story, but I ain't… You'se a great guy and all, Dave, but I ain't gonna tell you."

"That's all right, really," David smiled, but Dutchy sensed relief in that smile, probably because he seemed to be taking the whole conversation better than David had thought he would.

"And I can take care of myself," Dutchy continued firmly. Somehow, it seemed really important that he get that point across to David. "I can. I just…" He sighed. "Listen, it's a lot easier to take care of yourself when you don't think that you need or, uh, even _want_ anyone else."

"I understand that," David replied seriously. When Dutchy didn't respond immediately, he said, "Want to just sit here and watch the clouds?"

Dutchy smiled wearily. "Yeah. That'd be nice." Following David's lead, he lay back on the grass, pillowing his head on his hands, and gazed up at the sky.

The two boys lay there in silence for a while. Dutchy didn't mind, and didn't feel the need to fill the space with empty words. He was content to just think about what a strange turn his life had taken in the past weeks.

If he took the whirling emotions in his head and strained them, removing the fear, the worry, the frustration, the grief, removing everything that had been his life for so many years, then what he found left was something so new and so unfamiliar that he wasn't even sure what to call it.

Up until then, he'd lived his life day-to-day, hoping to make enough money to have something to eat that night. He hadn't had any family to go home to, any persons or places to serve as a touchstone in his life, to keep him grounded. Thoughts of the rest of his life had filled him with a fear that he'd tried unsuccessfully to exorcise. He wasn't a particularly good newsie – he was decent enough to scrape by, but certainly nowhere in the same league as Spot Conlon, or Jack, or even someone like Mush – and he knew that soon, he'd be too old to make _any_ sort of a living as a newsie. And then what? What was he qualified to do?

He was far too old and too poor to get any sort of education. Maybe if his family had lived, his lot would have been different, but he had always known that dreaming of what _might_ have been was no good. So once he was too old to sell papers, he would probably be forced to seek a living in the factories, doing difficult, dreary work until the day he died – not that anyone would care much when he did die, because he'd never gotten close to anyone. Dutchy had been filled with a dull horror whenever he tried to picture his remaining years, and with sadness when he realized that there was nothing he could do about it. It was an ill-defined, nebulous sort of life, not that he could have put his feelings about it into words, and he'd often wondered if there would ever be much of a point to him getting up in the morning.

Now, however, something had changed, shifted. It wasn't that his prospects were any better: he was still uneducated, with no hope of ever finding a decent job or having a comfortable life. All the same, the world looked just a little brighter. It wasn't even just that he now knew that he was completely, hopelessly in love with Bumlets, though that was part of it.

It was more that Dutchy now knew that someone cared about him, wanted him around. There was someone out there who cared where he was, and who would notice if he didn't come back at night. That meant more to him than he could even imagine.

And with someone else out there, even if Dutchy _did_ end up working a dangerous job in a factory, it wouldn't be so bad, because he could go home – wherever and whatever that would be – at night, and have someone there to care that he _had_ made it back safely for another day.

Maybe he wouldn't even have to get a job in a factory. On his own, he wouldn't even have enough money or be brave enough to try something else, but if another person were there – if Bumlets were there – then maybe he could be brave enough to leave New York and seek his fortune somewhere else.

He smiled to himself. Of course, he'd have to wait and talk to Bumlets about all of this, once this whole disaster with the clowns had ended. Dutchy had every faith that it would end well. After all, if Bumlets had managed to take care of himself thus far, even managing to work with the clowns undetected, he would manage to get himself out of this. All he'd _really_ needed Dutchy for, Dutchy now realized, was to know that there was someone who would care if he died. Not for the disastrous plans, just for… hope.

Hope. That was the word. That was what Dutchy was feeling, and it was something so new to him that it almost hurt.

But once this was all over and he talked to Bumlets… Maybe they would leave, go somewhere together.

"You know, Dave," he mused quietly, "I think I'se getting' too old for all this."

"For all what?" David asked.

"Bein' a newsie." Dutchy paused, then nodded firmly. "Yeah. If I'se learned anythin' from all this… Well, I think I'se ready to move on."

"To what?"

"Not sure yet. But I ain't gonna be a newsie forever and I don't wanna be."

"All right," David said slowly. "I understand, but… the guys are going to miss you."

"Yeah." Dutchy tried to grin, but his lips kept twitching. "I'll visit."

"What are you going to do?" David turned his curly head to look at Dutchy.

Dutchy licked his lips nervously. "That all depends."

"On?"

"Bumlets."

"Oh."

Silence fell again. This time, though, it was only a couple minutes before David spoke again.

"What about the spy?'

Dutchy blinked. "What's that got to do with me leaving?"

"Nothing really, but it's got to do with getting Bumlets out of this mess safely."

"Oh, yeah." Dutchy considered briefly. "I still got a really tough time believing that one of our guys is a traitor."

"Me too." David sat up, bracing himself with his hands. "The first thing that I ever noticed about the newsies was how close-knit all of you seemed. If one fell, you picked each other up. Sort of an, 'one for all, all for one' sort of thing. So how could someone do something like that?"

"I dunno." Dutchy shrugged. "Would have to be someone who felt more loyalty to the clowns than us, and that just ain't possible. Not with our group."

"That's true. Everyone's just been around for too long." David frowned. "Or maybe… Maybe it wasn't loyalty to the clowns. Maybe it was –" Suddenly, his eyes got very wide, and he snapped his mouth closed.

Dutchy blinked. "Maybe it was what, Dave?"

"Nothing."

"_Dave_."

"… It's just something I have to check on." David coughed, looking slightly ill-at-ease. "Still just a hypothesis. I have no proof."

"Hypo-what?" Dutchy muttered, but shrugged. David was making it clear that he wasn't going to say a word, and Dutchy was just going to have to trust him.

All the same, Dutchy kept a wary eye on David as they sat there quietly for a bit longer.

Fairly shortly, the noise of the crowd increased and people started pouring out through the wide tent opening. Most sounded quite pleased with the performance.

David and Dutchy sat up and looked at each other in surprise.

"That's it?" David asked.

"I guess so," Dutchy responded, and shrugged.

They waited patiently until Jack and Denton had found their way back over to them, then both stood up, brushing the grass from their clothes.

"How was the show?" David asked.

"It was all right." Jack shrugged, but he had that little smile in his eyes that meant that he'd really enjoyed it.

"As circuses go, it was a good one," Denton added. "Very well put-together."

"Was…" Dutchy paused. "Was it supposed to be so… short?"

Denton laughed. "That's circuses for you. They take your money, put on a quick show, and get rid of you. Children don't have the patience to sit still for very long on beautiful days like this and… Well, I'm sure you noticed the smell in there."

"Yeah, I noticed," Dutchy said, and wrinkled his nose. "I had a better time out here."

"How'd you guys pass the time?" Jack asked.

David shrugged. "We just sat and talked, mostly. Looked at the clouds. There wasn't all that much time to pass."

"So," Dutchy broke in, trying to sound even slightly casual, "is it time for the, uh, meeting?"

Denton shook his head. "Let's give it a few more minutes, guys. That'll give the crowd time to thin out. The fewer people who see anything, the better." He glanced around. "Oh, and Dutchy, as long as we're still on circus grounds, you should hold onto my hat and jacket. Just to be on the safe side."

Dutchy jammed the hat back onto his head and nodded. "Okay."

But it wasn't okay. He didn't want to wait. He wanted to run to the far side of the tents right that moment. He wanted to run right up to Bumlets, grab him, and never let go.

Now, with the chance to see and speak to Bumlets again so close, the time seemed to slow until mere seconds felt like minutes. By the time five minutes (or near enough as made no difference) had passed, Dutchy was pacing back and forth nervously, his hands laced tightly together behind his back.

What if something went wrong? What if Bumlets didn't meet them?

"Dutchy, slow down," Jack said irritably. "You'se givin' me a headache."

Dutchy paused in his pacing and glanced over at Jack. "Oh. Right. Sorry." He turned his gaze to Denton. "So, can we go now?"

They all scanned the crowd, and seeing that it had sufficiently decreased in size, Denton nodded, but cautioned, "Don't run. Look casual, like you're going back there to have a smoke."

"Yeah. I can do that." Dutchy grinned. "C'mon, guys."

Jack and David exchanged glances. "Actually, Dutchy, if it's okay with you, we'll be along in a couple of minutes."

"What? Why?" Dutchy asked, confused.

David coughed delicately. "We talked it over while you were unconscious. Seeing as how you're the… closest to Bumlets, we thought it might be nice to give you two a little time to catch up. Since you're good friends."

David arched an eyebrow at Dutchy, and Dutchy smiled back gratefully.

"Sure," he said quickly, "I got no problem with that. I'll, uh, just head over now. See you guys there in a few minutes." He nodded to the three of them, then turned around and headed purposefully towards the cluster of small tents, his heart pounding.

"Of course he'll be there," he muttered to himself. "He promised. He ain't the kind of guy to break a promise." Dutchy's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "He's gotta show. He's _gotta_."

As he neared the back of the large cluster of tents, his pace slowed. He was almost frightened of what he might – or might not – find back there.

"B—Buttons?" he called softly, searching the shadows for any sign of movement. "Buttons? You there?" He took a deep breath and tried a little louder. "Buttons?"

"Shhhhhh."

Dutchy spun around, his mouth dry as cotton, searching for the source of the noise. As he watched, a figure detached itself from the shadow of a large tree and started to walk over to him.

Dutchy met the figure half-way, eyes peering through his dirty spectacles to try and make certain of who it was he was looking at.

"Dutchy," Bumlets said quietly, and Dutchy's heart soared.

It _was_ Bumlets, and that was Bumlet's voice, not that harsh voice he'd had in the tent, even though he sounded tired and strained, and even though he looked liked he'd lost a little weight under the heavy makeup, and even though a bowler was tucked low over his face, none of it mattered, because it was Bumlets, and he was _safe_, and he was _right_ _here_. Dutchy wanted to reach out and touch his face, but there was something forbidding about Bumlets right this second, and suddenly he felt too shy to do anything.

"Dutchy," Bumlets said again, in that half-whisper, "what're you doin' here?"

Dutchy blinked, stunned, and not a little hurt. "Well," he managed, "you told us to meet you here."

"Yeah, I know that. What're you doin'… _here_?" Bumlets stretched his arm out, encompassing the entire circus grounds.

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Dutchy found that he couldn't look Bumlets quite in the eye. "We – I had to find you."

Bumlets blinked, though it was hard to discern through the shadows that hid his eyes. "You came here to find me?"

"K—kinda," Dutchy said, then hastened to explain, "I mean, we came here to see if we could find out if the clowns knew anythin' about where you were, or if they had you here. So, I guess, we, uh, came _about_ you, but we didn't know that you was here."

"You been looking for me?" The flat tone in Bumlets' voice lifted a little, and suddenly Dutchy felt that Bumlets was feeling just as awkward as he, and just as scared.

"Of _course_ I've been looking for you!" Dutchy exclaimed, taking care to keep his voice quiet. "I've been worried day and night that they'd gotten you, that you was gone forever, and then we find you _here_, and I don't know how you done it, but I think it's _amazin_' how you somehow managed to hide right under their big, ugly clown noses, and I'se just so glad that you're all right." He broke off, wondering if he'd said too much.

Finally, Bumlets lifted the hat away from his face, and Dutchy could finally see his eyes. They were exhausted, with tension lurking in their depths, but they were still Bumlets' steady brown eyes, gazing directly at Dutchy.

"I…I've been wondering a lot," Bumlets said quietly, "if what happened that night – if what you said or did… I mean, I'd understand if you'd wanna take it back. We was both scared and, uh, under lots of pressure. It… it didn't have to mean nothin', is all I'm sayin'."

Dutchy stared at him incredulously. "You _crazy_?" he asked loudly. "I've been out there, losing my mind over you, and you've been _in here_, working face-to-face with the _clowns_ who want you _dead_, and you've been spendin' your time worryin' about _whether I like you_?"

He'd had enough of talking. Clearly Bumlets had been so scared by his experience that he no longer knew which was up. Well, Dutchy knew _damn_ well which way was up and how he felt about Bumlets, and he wasn't going to stand there for another minute without telling Bumlets in no uncertain terms how he felt.

Without another word, he stepped forward and flung his arms as tightly around Bumlets as he could manage. Lowering his head and pressing it against Bumlets' shoulder, he was more than thankful to feel Bumlets' arms creeping around to hold him too.

"I swear," he said through clenched teeth, "if you ever even think 'bout runnin' away and never gettin' in touch with me to tell me where you are again, I'll never forgive you. You realize how _scared_ I was?"

"I was kinda scared myself," Bumlet mumbled back, but there was no accusation in his words. His fingers clutched at the back of the jacket Dutchy was wearing. "I spent the longest time just… runnin' and hidin', cause I had nowhere to go, but I knew that they was gonna catch up to me sooner or later. So I – I came here. I figured the best place to hide was the only place they thought they'd never see me. They spend most of their free time out lookin' for me, and they ain't never seen me without _this_ on my face, so they ain't never recognized me. But I'm so tired, Dutchy. I'm so tired of bein' sure that any second, one of 'em's gonna take a closer look at me. The circus is leavin' town soon, but that ain't gonna mean it's over. They got friends all over the place who'll keep lookin', even when they ain't here. I – I don't know what to do. I don't know how long I can keep runnin', Dutchy, but I… I sure am glad that you found me. I wanted to see you more than anythin'. I just… I don't think I can stay here."

Dutchy tightened his grip on Bumlets even more, wishing he could take away the exhaustion and the pain he heard in Bumlets' voice. "So we'll go," he said simply.

Bumlets pulled back slightly to look at him. "What?"

"You and me. Let's get out of here, Bumlets. I was thinkin' that I'se gettin' old for a newsie anyway. Let's take what we got and leave New York. Together."

"You serious?" Bumlets breathed.

"I ain't never been more serious about nothing in my life," Dutchy replied firmly, and was rewarded by the smile on Bumlets' face that he'd despaired of ever seeing again, the one that made Bumlets' eyes sparkle and his nose crinkle.

"Okay, Dutchy," Bumlets said finally, sounding as though a great burden were lifting from his shoulders. "Let's do it. I got a couple things back at the Lodging House I wouldn't mind grabbin', but—"

He was cut off by a harsh voice. "But it looks like the plans have been changed."

The two boys pulled apart in surprise, Dutchy having a sense of déjà vu that filled him with dread. They gazed at the next tent over, from where several men had just emerged to stand in a straight line, staring ice at the two of them.

Barely even aware that he was doing it, Dutchy grabbed Bumlets' hand.

"It was a clever plan, kid," the leader, Duffer, said, "and you kept us guessing for a while." He shook his head. "Pretending to be one of us, and it almost worked. Lucky for us that Gonzo over there caught you talking to Blondie here and wondered why one of _us_ would be talking to one of _you_."

Dutchy cast a frantic eye back in the direction of the main tent, wondering where David, Jack, and Denton were, what was taking them so long. They probably thought they were doing him a favor by delaying, he thought grimly.

"Don't worry, Bumlets," he muttered, "I ain't gonna let 'em get you."

Bumlets looked over at Dutchy, and suddenly smiled and squeezed Dutchy's hand, before letting go. "Don't _you_ worry," he said quietly. "I'll make certain you're safe."

Thrown off guard, Dutchy groped for Bumlets' hand, but Bumlets had already stepped forward, gazing at the intimidating men.

"Okay," Bumlets said quietly, his voice surprisingly steady. "You can have me. Just leave him alone."

Dutchy stared, openmouthed, at Bumlets. "Are you _insane_?"

"Blondie," Duffer said, "we got nothing really against you. You should get out of here while you still can. And don't tell anyone about this."

"Go, Dutchy," Bumlets muttered. "I don't want you to get hurt."

"I ain't goin'," Dutchy growled in return. "You think I'd be just fine if I walk away and let these goons have you?" He shook his head fiercely.

"I can't do this if I know that you ain't safe," was Bumlets' terse response.

"_Good_," was Dutchy's even terser response. "I ain't leavin' you, so you might as well get used to the idea."

Duffer sighed and rolled his eyes skyward. "I haven't seen stupidity like this since I was in _Romeo and Juliet_. Fine, then, kill them both."

"Got any more plans?" Bumlets whispered to Dutchy as the men slowly closed in around them.

Dutchy fought back a hysterical laugh. "My plans never work. I was hopin' you had somethin'."

"I wish we'd had more time." Bumlets didn't sound like he was talking about time to plan.

"Me too." Neither did Dutchy.

But then there was no more time, because they were both surrounded by clowns and it was too late.

* * *

AN: Does anyone else sense the story's climax approaching? Because I certainly do. Stay tuned!


	11. eleven

There were hands everywhere Dutchy cast his gaze, and they were all reaching for him and Bumlets. His mouth was dry and his knees were shaking. Deep inside, a small, shameful voice whispered to him that he should have run while he had the chance, but there was no time for regrets. If his life was to end, there was no one he would rather end it with than Bumlets.

In a way, it was almost a relief. He'd spent his life running, ever since the day his family had died. Even after he'd gone to the place where his family had burned and bid them goodbye, there had still been that urge in his stomach, the feeling that any minute he might have to run. But now he was through running for good. One way or the other, he would never run away again.

He clenched his hands into fists. Though the odds were hopeless, he wasn't about to go down without putting up as much of a fight as he could. The clowns weren't going to walk away from this unscathed, he vowed silently.

But before he could so much as draw his fist back, the clowns had moved around, one to each side of him. They grabbed his arms and, despite his struggles, held him firmly in place. Casting about wildly, Dutchy could see that they'd done the same to Bumlets, who was also struggling, but looked vaguely…distracted.

He would have liked to spend hours puzzling over what that look on Bumlets' face. He would have liked to trace that brackets around Bumlets' mouth with his fingers and smooth away the angry little line in between Bumlets' eyebrows, and kiss the worried frown away from Bumlets' mouth. He would have liked to massage the tension away from Bumlets' muscles, and then…

There was just no time, though. There was no time to even think about it, as one of the clowns reached into his coat and withdrew a sleek, black revolver.

A whimper worked its way up through Dutchy's constricted vocal cords and escaped from his mouth. He wasn't even going to get to fight back. The clowns were going to shoot them like dogs, right here, right now. Even if David, Jack, and Denton showed up, it would be too late.

Trembling, he turned his head to look at Bumlets, wanting the last thing he would ever look at to be something pleasant. To his surprise, the distracted look on Bumlets' face had deepened. There was fear there, to be sure, but Bumlets looked like he was trying to make up his mind about something. Whatever it was, it couldn't really matter anymore.

He tried as quickly as possible to trace the lines of Bumlets' face with his eyes, to memorize every angle and curve, but to his great surprise, Bumlets suddenly firmed his chin, took a deep breath, and shouted, "_Wait_!"

To his even greater surprise, the clowns paused, looking curiously at Bumlets. Dutchy sagged, still being held upright by the tight grips of the clowns.

"Wait," Bumlets said again. "Your friend's death… It was an _accident_."

From somewhere behind them, Duffer laughed bitterly. "You actually think that pleading for your pathetic life's going to make a difference, kid? You sabotaged that cannon, you killed him for a couple lousy bucks, and you think that anything you could say now would make us let you go?"

"I never _touched_ that cannon," Bumlets spat, struggling. "The fuse was cut too short and I saw it, but I never thought that he'd _die_. I just wanted enough money for _dinner_. If I was gonna _kill_ a guy, why would I do it for a dollar and two bits?"

There was a long moment of silence. Dutchy held his breath, wondering if the clowns might actually listen to reason.

"You must've known you would get caught," another clown said.

"Then why would I have bothered at all?" Bumlets demanded. "It don't make _sense_." Dutchy stared at Bumlets, and Bumlets looked back at him this time. The anguished affection in Bumlets' eyes made Dutchy's chest hurt; Bumlets must think it wasn't going to work.

The clown snorted. "You're just stalling, you little—"

Duffer hissed something angrily, and the clown shut his mouth.

"So," Duffer said, after a few seconds, "you mind explaining to me how someone like you would know how long a cannon fuse should be cut?"

"I grew up in a circus," Bumlets replied tensely. "I know 'em in and out. That fuse should've been at least half a foot longer, but maybe the guy who cut it wasn't trained too good."

"You grew up in a circus," Duffer repeated disbelievingly.

"Yeah. Ever heard of the Flyin' Fretelli Family?" Bumlets asked.

"The _acrobats_?" Gonzo asked.

Bumlets nodded. "I was the youngest. They called me Baby Fretelli."

"You've heard of them?" Duffer asked Gonzo, moving around to stand in front of the boys.

Gonzo nodded. "I used to work with 'em."

Bumlets' eyes widened. "You _did_? _When_?"

"We ask the questions here!" Duffer snapped. He glanced over at Gonzo. "Well?"

"There were six of 'em," Gonzo said. "They did talk about how the youngest boy disappeared several years ago and they never found him."

Looking at Bumlets, Dutchy could count every single emotion that crossed Bumlets' face upon hearing about his family. He wanted to reach out for Bumlets' hand, but he wasn't able to reach that far; the clowns hadn't loosened their grip.

"The kid could've heard about it, though," Duffer muttered to Gonzo, though his words rang out clear in the afternoon air. "Is there a way to _prove_ any of what he's saying?"

Gonzo nodded and fixed Bumlets with a hard gaze. "What's your name, Baby _Fretelli_?"

"Wha—"

"Your _name_."

Bumlets swallowed visibly. "Alejandro. Alejandro Cortez."

"Cortez," Gonzo repeated slowly, and nodded over at Duffer. "He's telling the truth, Duffer. No one outside of the circus would know their name."

Dutchy licked his lips, now daring to hope that maybe, just maybe, they would get out of this alive.

"I'm still not convinced," Duffer said, and Dutchy's stomach seemed to plummet down to his feet. Duffer glanced around at the faces of the other clowns and appeared to be deep in thought for a long moment. "You say you grew up in this family of acrobats?" Bumlets nodded, and Dutchy wondered uneasily why Duffer had put so emphasis on the word _acrobats_.

* * *

Still held in between two hulking clowns, Dutchy was suddenly very grateful for the support. Staring up at Bumlets, who was standing all alone on a platform high above, nervously eyeing the trapeze, Dutchy was fairly sure that his legs would give out and he would collapse were he not being held upright.

"But," he stammered to the one of the clowns, "Bumlets hates heights!"

The clown did no more than shoot a sideways look at him. "You want your friend to prove himself innocent or not?"

Dutchy shut his mouth and watched Bumlets intently, as though the very power of his gaze could keep the dark-haired boy from falling. Bumlets was mentally preparing himself for the jump; Dutchy could tell that even at this distance.

Suddenly, there was a disturbance back at the entrance to the tent. Twisting his head around, Dutchy wasn't terribly surprised to see Jack and David trying to force their way in, Denton behind them.

Dutchy groaned. He didn't want Bumlets to have to do this, but if Jack and David caused any problems, the clowns might get angry again and decide to off the two of them without any further consideration.

With a quick glance upwards to make sure that Bumlets was about to jump, Dutchy again craned his head back towards the entrance and yelled to Jack and David, "_Stop it!_" They both heard him, he was sure of that, but neither of them paused. So he yelled again. "You tryin' to get us both killed! Stop fighting!"

This time, they paused. He could see their gaze travel from him, up to Bumlets, so precariously perched, then back down. He smiled as reassuringly as he could manage, given the fact that his stomach was tied up in knots. The two other boys looked confused and more than alarmed, but they obediently took a step back, though Jack still looked ready to spring forward and pound on the most convenient person.

Without another thought, he turned back up and gazed at Bumlets, trying to will him as much strength as he could. He could see the change in Bumlets' posture as, far above, he straightened and prepared for whatever it was he was about to do.

Every eye was turned upwards as Bumlets reached his hands straight out in front of him, his body poised in a graceful arc, and dove from the platform.

Dutchy let out a brief cry; he couldn't help it. Bumlets was going to _fall_, he was _falling_, he was going to—

Except… Bumlets wasn't falling. He'd plummeted for a couple of terrifying seconds, but then he'd reached out and neatly grabbed onto the trapeze. Now he swung from the trapeze, easily, and flipped so that he was sitting on the bar of the trapeze.

"Well?" his voice came floating down from above. "Are you satisfied now? Can I get back to my life?"

The clowns shrugged and glanced over at Duffer, who looked every bit as impressed as the rest of them. He sighed and shook his head ruefully. "Okay, kid," he called up to Bumlets. "You can come down now. I'm convinced."

"And my friend?"

Duffer gestured to the two clowns who held Dutchy; they released him immediately. Without them holding him up, Dutchy immediately sank down onto the ground. He was still in shock over seeing Bumlets jump like that, and at realizing how _amazing _he was at it.

Suddenly, Jack and David were crouching on either side of him.

"Are you all right?" David asked him concernedly.

Dutchy laughed breathlessly. "Yeah, I – How'd you guys get in here?"

"They let us in," David replied. He glanced around and up at Bumlets, who was in the process of making the trapeze rock enough so that he could dive back over to the platform. "It looks like everything's going to be okay…"

Dutchy only nodded. He wasn't about to take his gaze from Bumlets until Bumlets was safe and back on the ground.

"Yeah," Jack muttered. "Everything's good, except for that we still ain't got a clue who the spy is."

"I've got that under control," David said to Jack. "Trust me."

Jack shrugged. "Dutchy, how'd – How'd you guys convince them that – Why was Bumlets up on the trapeze?"

"Long story," Dutchy said wearily, heart in his throat as Bumlets dove back to the platform and landed safely.

Despite the fact that his legs were still trembling and his head was still pounding, he stood up and made his way over to the ladder up the platform, and waited for Bumlets to climb down. Once Bumlets hopped off the last rung and turned around, Dutchy grabbed him in a tight hug, regardless of the fact that everyone was watching. He'd been amazed at how confident and collected Bumlets had seemed up above, but now, feeling how hard Bumlets' heart was pounding and seeing how the sweat stood out in beads on his forehead, he realized that it had all been an act.

"You okay?" he breathed.

Bumlets nodded tightly, but hissed through his teeth, "I… hate… heights."

"I know," Dutchy replied, and gave Bumlets an extra squeeze before releasing him and turning to find Gonzo and Duffer standing right there. He felt Bumlets wince, and wasn't surprised; even though they had said that they wouldn't hurt him, Bumlets had spent so long in a state of terror that seeing them suddenly right _there_ must still come as a nasty surprise.

"Listen," Gonzo said, "I hope you don't expect an apology or anything."

Bumlets gave a forced bark of laughter. "Apologies? From clowns?"

"Exactly," Gonzo said. "But to make this up to you… I know where your family is."

Bumlets subtly reached out for Dutchy's hand, and Dutchy grabbed it, vaguely thankful that they were still standing close enough together that no one noticed. Bumlets' hand was freezing cold.

"My family? You actually know…"

"Like I said, I used to work with 'em. And they talked about _you_ all the time."

Dutchy took a deep breath. No matter what, he wasn't going to be separated from Bumlets again. Remembering how worried he had been about losing Bumlets to his family, Dutchy almost smiled. How stupid he had been – the answer was so simple. If Bumlets decided to go find his family, well, then Dutchy would go with him.

"Where are they?" Bumlets asked, his voice calm but for a little quaver.

"They're with Barnum and Bailey's Circus," Gonzo replied. "I think it's way out west this time of year."

"Thanks," Bumlets said, exhaling deeply. He glanced over at Dutchy, who smiled at him as reassuringly as he could. "Come on, Dutchy. Let's… let's go."

They nodded to the clowns and left the tent, Jack and David hot on their heels.

* * *

The walk back to the Lodging House was quiet. Denton had left them after telling Bumlets how happy he was that Bumlets was safe. David had gone too, citing that he needed to stop back at his family's apartment and would see them back at the Lodging House soon. Dutchy and Bumlets had had many things they'd wanted to say to each other, but with Jack still right there, they didn't dare.

And then when they actually _got_ back to the Lodging House, Bumlets was mobbed by all of the other newsies, and it had been a full half hour before anyone calmed down enough to do something other than jump all over Bumlets and question him excitedly about where he had been and what he had done.

Finally, Bumlets managed to ease himself out of the crowd of boys and made his way over to where Dutchy was sitting on his bed, quietly watching the proceedings. Dutchy hadn't been upset by being left completely out of the celebration; he'd been happy simply to watch Bumlets and to see Bumlets smile. He'd noted, though, not without a certain amount of satisfaction, it wasn't Bumlets' big glowy smile, the one that seemed to be reserved for Dutchy.

"So…" Bumlets said softly, sitting down next to Dutchy.

Dutchy stared straight ahead, not wanting to be too obvious about how much he wanted to turn and gaze at Bumlets. "So…?" he prompted.

Bumlets took a deep breath and seemed to be about to ask him something, but then, suddenly, David marched into the room, walked straight over to them, beckoned Jack, and announced quietly, "I know who the spy is."

"You do?" Dutchy asked.

"The _what_?" Bumlets asked.

Dutchy gaped for a moment, then remembered how long Bumlets had been gone. "Uh… Hard to explain, Bumlets… A lot happened while you were gone," he said quickly. "So, David, who is it?"

"Yeah, Davey," Jack said, having just made his way over to them, "who's the rat?"

David sighed. "The thing is – He's not _actually_ a rat. He didn't know that he was doing something wrong."

"Davey…" Jack prompted.

"He's out in the hall," David said. "I'll go get him, but – Don't yell at him, okay?"

"Don't _yell_?" Jack exclaimed. "You expect me not to—"

"You're his _hero_, Jack," David said firmly as he walked away. "If you yell at him, he'll be _crushed_."

"Wait a sec," Jack said suspiciously, as David eased through the newsies and over to the door, "is he trying to tell me that the spy is—"

He trailed off, and Dutchy's jaw dropped as David returned, followed by a guilty-looking, crestfallen Les.

"Dutchy," Bumlets murmured, "what's going—"

Dutchy hushed him. "I'll explain later," he replied quietly. "I promise."

Jack was staring down at Les, who was staring unhappily at the floor. David gently elbowed Les, and finally Les spoke.

"I'm real sorry," he mumbled. "I was hiding in the room the day you two were talking, and then when that guy asked me what you'd been talking about – He said he'd give me five dollars! And I – I didn't know that he was a… a bad guy." The small boy finally looked up, and he looked so unhappy that Dutchy couldn't have found it in his heart to be mad at him, even if he'd tried.

He glanced up at Jack, who rubbed a hand across his eyes and sighed. "How'd you figure it out, Davey?" he asked.

David put a comforting hand on Les' shoulder. "I remembered him coming home and saying that he'd found the five bucks lying in the street." He grinned wearily. "Les is a terrible liar, and it wasn't too hard to put two and two together."

"I'm _really_ sorry," Les said again.

Dutchy knew what it felt like to not even realize that he was betraying people he cared about until it was too late. "It's okay, Les," he said quietly. "Any of us could've made the same – It's really okay. Everything turned out all right, an' that's all that matters." He glanced up at Jack.

Jack sighed. "Yeah, it's okay, kiddo." He ruffled Les' hair, and the haunted look in the boy's eyes disappeared almost immediately to be replaced by a large grin.

After that, every single newsie wanted to know what had happened and why Les had looked so sad. What with one thing and another, Dutchy and Bumlets didn't get a chance to really speak to each other until the sun had set and they snuck outside to sit on a bench down the street.

"Think we'll get interrupted out here?" Bumlets asked, a hint of a grin on his face.

"With _our_ luck, they'll follow us out here," Dutchy replied, and there were few enough people out this time of night that he was able to lean his head against Bumlets' shoulder.

Bumlets sighed. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," Dutchy mumbled. "An' I was so worried, the whole time."

Between them, on the bench, their fingers gently intertwined, and Bumlets squeezed Dutchy's hand. Dutchy had the feeling that Bumlets was trying to work up the nerve to say something, so he waited quietly.

Finally, Bumlets cleared his throat. "Dutchy, what you said before, when I said I couldn't stay – about how you'd go with me—" He paused, seemingly unsure as to how to proceed.

"Yeah," Dutchy said cautiously.

"Well, I don't gotta run anymore, but – I'd still like to go. I want to find my family and do _somethin'_ with my life. I can't be a newsie forever," he added.

Dutchy nodded. "I know how you feel," he said, hoping that Bumlets wasn't about to say that he didn't Dutchy to go.

"Anyway, I know that, uh, it ain't an emergency anymore, so if you don't want to go…"

"Hold on!" Dutchy exclaimed. "Didn't we already say all this already today?"

Bumlets shifted. "Yeah, I know, but… leavin' is a big decision, Dutchy. I ain't just gonna assume that you'd go with me."

"If you ain't here, I ain't stayin'," Dutchy said simply, and squeezed Bumlets' hand.

Bumlets let out a long, relieved-sounding sigh, and when Dutchy glanced up at him, Bumlets was leaning his head back and smiling. "You'd really go with me," he murmured.

"Of course I would," Dutchy replied. He hesitated briefly, but continued, "I think I love you, so I ain't about to let you leave without me."

"You love me?" Bumlets asked, sounding amazed.

Dutchy pulled away slightly, suddenly feeling awkward. Maybe he shouldn't have said it…

Bumlets quickly threw an arm around Dutchy and pulled him closer. "Where're you going? I didn't get a chance to reply!"

"Sorry," Dutchy mumbled. "I didn't mean to…"

"What I was going to say, if you'd given me a chance, is that I've – I've loved you for a long time, Dutchy. Ever since that first day."

Dutchy smiled happily; he was amazed by it, despite the fact that Bumlets had always seemed to know what was going on better than _he_ ever did.

The two of them sat there in contented silence for several minutes.

"So, Ale…" Dutchy paused. "What was it, again?"

"Alejandro," Bumlets replied quietly. "And you?"

"Kristoff." Dutchy grinned and tried again, "So, Alejandro, when do we leave?"

"How's tomorrow morning, Kristoff?"

"It's good. And… where're we going?"

Bumlets blinked. "Out west, somewhere, I guess. I'm not… really sure, but –"

Dutchy cut him off. "It's all right. After all… Where we go… Does it _matter_?"

"I guess not," Bumlets agreed. He paused.

When Dutchy glanced up, Racetrack was standing right there in front of them. Rapidly, Dutchy sat up straight and let go of Bumlets' hand.

"Uh, hi, Race," he said uneasily.

Racetrack rolled his eyes. "You don't gotta pretend in front of me, Dutchy. I'm the one who told you, remember?"

"Told him?" Bumlets asked suspiciously. "Told him _what_?"

Racetrack actually looked embarrassed, which was an unusual occurrence, at best. "I thought you was dead when I told him, Bumlets."

"You told him that I liked him, didn't you?" Bumlets asked evenly.

"Yeah, I… I told him. Sorry."

Bumlets barely hesitated before smiling widely and saying, "Thank you, Race. I owe you one."

Racetrack laughed and grinned crookedly. "So, you guys are leaving, then?"

"You heard."

"I was standin' right here, yes."

"Yeah, we're goin'," Dutchy said. He glanced over at Bumlets. "We're gonna go find his family and then… Who knows?"

"I'll miss you guys," Race said, suddenly uncharacteristically somber. "You'se both good guys."

"We'll – _I'll_ write," Dutchy said. "An' he will too, once I teach him how."

"Sounds like everything's all planned out, then," Racetrack replied.

"Not really," Dutchy said. "We'll say goodbye to the other guys and go to the train station. After that…" He shrugged and looked over at Bumlets.

Bumlets smiled back. "Yeah, that's the plan, Race. Ain't it a good one?"

"Sounds like fun," Racetrack replied with a twinkle in his eyes. "I'll leave you two alone for now. Just be sure to… get a good night's sleep."

As the two watched Racetrack head down the street, Dutchy wrapped his arm around Bumlets' shoulders. "It's a _great_ plan," he said quietly. "Best damn plan I ever heard in my life."

"Better than the plans you come up with, Kristoff?" Bumlets asked with a hint of a smile.

Loving the way that Bumlets said his real name, Dutchy turned his head to look at Bumlets, to look at those deep, mellow brown eyes, that golden skin, that warm, welcoming smile. He imagined roaming the country with Bumlets by his side, imagined being able to do all those things he'd only ever dreamed about… to be alone with Bumlets, totally alone, to discover every nook and cranny of Bumlets' body, to learn what made him tick, what he thought and felt until he'd know Bumlets inside out. He thought of all this and more in the space of a few heated seconds.

And right before he pressed his lips to Bumlets', he breathed, "Oh, yeah, Alejandro. A million times better, an' don't you ever forget it."

_The End_


End file.
